


Speaking in Flowers

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Books, F/F, Flower Symbolism, Flowers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healer Harry Potter, Hog's Head Inn (Harry Potter), Hogsmeade, Hogwarts, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, POV Hermione Granger, Post-Canon, Post-Hogwarts, Slow Burn, kind of? idk its like not treated super seriously but its there in the first two or three chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22982059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Hermione has lived in Hogsmeade for many years and has never once seen Pansy Parkinson until she starts showing up everywhere.
Relationships: Hannah Abbott/Luna Lovegood, Harry Potter/Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 98
Kudos: 353





	1. Violets

She’s all sharp angles. Her hair cut into a perfectly straight bob that stops at her chin, her robes crisp and elegant, both are pitch black. She’s tall, she’s slender, she’s angular. Her eyes are either black or green - it’s impossible to tell, but they’re beautiful and  _ Merlin’s beard _ Hermione is regretting that fourth firewhiskey.

The half full fifth glass of the offending drink seems to stare at Hermione as she directs her attention at that rather than Pansy Parkinson. What the hell is Parkinson doing there anyways? Hermione has lived in Hogsmeade for five years now and she’s never once seen the woman. Haven’t all of the Slytherins from that year moved abroad?

She’s never had much of an opinion on Parkinson - well, not since the end of the war. But now, seeing her for the first time in seven years, Hermione is practically drooling over her.

Home is probably a good place to be, she thinks. 

She should go home, she also thinks.

Her hands are blurry, she continues to think.

She’ll go home, she decides and downs the rest of her firewhiskey in one gulp. Hermione gets to her feet and immediately sways and stumbles and has to grab onto the bar to steady herself.

She takes a few more steps towards the door, then stops when she hears someone exclaim, “Circe’s left tit, is that Hermione Granger? _ Drunk? _ ”

Parkinson is leaning nonchalantly against the nearest table. She looks painfully wonderful, despite the smirk creasing her face.

“I’m an adult, Parkinson,” Hermione musters, though she thinks her words are coming out slurred and, perhaps, slightly incomprehensible. “I can get drunk if I so choose.”

Parkinson looks endlessly amused. “Of course, Granger. I just never expected it from miss rules-turn-me-on.”

Hermione frowns. “Rules do not turn me on, I’m not Percy.” 

Parkinson lets out a startled cackle. “Merlin! You’re full of surprises, Granger.” 

She departs with a loud  _ crack! _ leaving Hermione bewildered and feeling very off kilter.

🌻🌻🌻

The next time Hermione sees Parkinson, it’s three days later and in the Hog’s Head again.

“Oh, an alcoholic, are we, Granger dear?” Parkinson asks when Hermione orders three drinks.

She glares at Parkinson out of the corner of her eye. “Hardly.” She is very annoyed that Parkinson is somehow even more beautiful with sober eyes. She decides that it’s just from a very long period of being single and then spotting a pretty girl while drunk has impacted her judgement.

“Sure, don’t come crying to me when you end up falling all over yourself again.”

“Parkinson, I haven’t seen you in seven years,  _ why _ would I go to you?” Hermione demands.

“You saw me on saturday,” Parkinson shrugs and walks to the other side of the pub. 

Hermione takes a massive swig of her drink and forces herself to look away from Parkinson’s retreating figure. She locates an empty table and sets the glasses down. Harry and Ron should be arriving any minute.

🌻

“Drinking on a monday with Potter and Weasley?” Parkinson drawls as she drops down to sit across from Hermione. “Quite ballsy, I must say. Imagine if Saint Potter goes into work hungover on a tuesday morning, it’ll be splashed all over the  _ Daily Prophet _ .”

Hermione doesn’t let herself reveal that she’s very confused by Parkinson. Her voice is smooth and calm as she says, “It was only one drink, I hardly think there’ll be any hangovers for us. Besides, you’re hardly one to talk.”

Parkinson snorts and it’s a very odd juxtaposition to her pristine appearance and movements. “Please, darling, I only come here for the food and experimental coffees.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Experimental coffees?”

“Oh, yes, they’re on the secret menu for exceptionally gorgeous people only. Today’s brew is quite divine. No, you shan’t be having a sip, you simply aren’t pretty enough, I’m afraid.” She sips her drink. “Do you  _ have _ a job, Granger?”

“Parkinson, it’s half past seven. I don’t work the night shifts. I take it that you don’t have a job as you keep turning up?”

“I’m not getting hammered, it doesn’t matter if I’m in the pub if I’m not drinking.”

Then she’s gone.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione spots Parkinson in the Hog’s Head every time she goes - which she only does after tough days of work to unwind. It’s not her fault if everything is a maddening clusterfuck of nonsense that makes her want to throw a table out the window.

To her infinite horror, Hermione has noticed a lot of things about Parkinson besides her blinding beauty. She always dresses stylishly, her robes are always fancy, made of fine fabrics with wonderful colours, but simple and they suit her very well. Thanks to the increasingly hot days of June, Hermione knows she always wears long sleeved shirts that usually tuck into high waisted shorts and skirts under her robes, if she’s even wearing robes at all. She has  _ something _ tattooed on both arms but Hermione can never see more than a flash of a black beneath the cuffs of her shirt.

Pansy Parkinson is the most mysterious person Hermione has ever met. And for some reason, she’s kept their odd little talks secret from everyone, even Harry and Ron. It all just feels... surreal. When Parkinson isn’t talking to her, she’s hardly sure if the woman’s even  _ real _ or not.

“Five days in a row, Granger?” Parkinson asks one saturday. “I think you’ve got a bit of a problem. Is it the Weasel? Having a lover’s spat?”

“Ron and I have never been  _ lovers _ ,” Hermione replies with a slow, deliberate voice. She’s on her third glass of firewhiskey and trying not to make it show.

“My point still stands.  _ Five days _ , Granger.”

“And you care why?”

“Oh, I don’t. I’m just a nosy bitch,” Parkinson says with a blasé wave of the hand. “Don’t mind me while I figure out how Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, has turned to alcoholism.”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” Hermione says.

Parkinson raises an eyebrow and shrugs. “Sure, dear. Don’t come in here for one month and I’ll believe you.”

Hermione sighs. “What?”

“Either you stay out of here for one month or I start smashing every glass of firewhiskey you order. Just to annoy you.”

“You wou-”

Parkinson slaps the half empty glass to the ground. It smashes and the new barman begins growling at the both of them. “If that happens again, you’ll  _ both  _ be tossed out,” he says.

The grin Parkinson adopts is that of a shark. Hermione feels like she might have a leg bitten off and she knows Parkinson will absolutely shatter more glasses.

“ _ Merlin _ ,  _ fine _ ,” Hermione snaps.

“You said that the way an alcoholic would say it,” Parkinson says. 

She disapparates.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione  _ isn’t _ an alcoholic, but maybe she does have a bit of a problem. It’s not her fault that everyone at the Ministry is an incompetent, uncaring beaurocrat. As the head of the Being Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she has to deal with a lot of absolutely inane nonsense.

🌻🌻🌻

“Figures I’d run into you in a quill shop.”

Hermione turns her head and really shouldn’t be as surprised as she is to see Parkinson leaning over a short shelf of Limited Edition Peacock Feather Quick Quotes Quills. She’s wearing a dark, cranberry red blouse with black lace emerging from the low cut square neckline. There’s a tattoo on the right side of her chest, just below her clavicle, a downward facing triangle with a line through it. Her arms are folded over the top of the shelf and Hermione thinks she  _ must _ be doing this on purpose.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hermione asks with a frown.

Parkinson smirks. “I’m fairly sure what I mean is obvious.”

“No, enlighten me.”

“You seem the type to fuck a book.”

Hermione’s face heats up and she turns back to the quills she was perusing. “Don’t be crude.”

“Ah, but you’ve not denied it.”

“Parkinson,” Hermione sighs, “I would rather like to purchase some quills without your...” She initially trails off to figure out what the right word to use would be, but then her silence is entirely because Parkinson has walked around the shelf and now Hermione can see that she’s chosen to wear one of those short, high waisted shorts and combat boots.

It’s a painfully attractive outfit and Hermione hates it.

“Without my what?” Parkinson asks with a quirked eyebrow and an amused glint in her eye.

“Your inappropriate distractions,” Hermione says before she can think through the implications of her words.

“Oh, my  _ distractions _ !” Parkinson says in a suspiciously gleeful voice. Hermione is horrified that she notices the way her hips curve as she leans against the wall.

The quills. Focus on the quills, Hermione tells herself and snaps her eyes to the box of self inking quills. Maybe if she ignores Parkinson she’ll go away? She usually just suddenly leaves. Maybe the next time Hermione looks up, she’ll just be gone.

She grabs the self inking quills.

Parkinson is still there.

Parkinson has grabbed a box of the exact same type of quills.

Parkinson is walking up to the till along with Hermione.

She  _ has _ to be doing this on purpose. She’s fucking with Hermione, she just has to be.

🌻🌻🌻

“So let me get this straight,” Ron says. “You aren’t going to the Hog’s Head because  _ Pansy Parkinson _ thinks you have a drinking problem? That’s ridiculous!”

They’re in a nice little muggle diner near the Ministry for lunch.

“Yes, well, I’m not exactly keen on being banned for life just because I want a drink.” Hermione replies. “Parkinson’s already shattered one glass, she’ll shatter more. And I suppose I have been visiting the bar rather a lot lately.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have a drinking problem,” Harry says. He’s looking haggard and like he might just collapse at any moment. For a hospital, St Mungo’s certainly didn’t seem to care about it’s staff.

“Either way, it’s probably for the better. You two have given me your absolutely atrocious destressing habits.”

“Hey, I don’t drink anymore,” Harry exclaims.

“Only because you’re on call for St Mungo’s at all hours of the day,” Hermione says rather dryly. “And you don’t do anything to destress anymore, either. Which you  _ should _ , you look like a walking corpse.”

“I’m perfectly fine!” he says indignantly.

“She’s right, love,” Ron says and Harry shoots him a scowl. He opens his mouth as if he’s about protest, but the protean charmed bracelet on his wrist vibrated.

“Shit, I’ve got to go,” he says and runs out of the diner, only stopping to drop a peck on Ron’s cheek.

Hermione and Ron watch him leave and are silent for a moment until Ron turns to Hermione and says, “I still think you’re mental.”

🌻🌻🌻

“Ugh, she keeps showing up  _ everywhere _ ,” Hermione mutters, turning away from the rack of robes she was perusing in Gladrags Wizardwear.

Ginny lowers the dress she was examing to glance at Hermione. “I think you’re being a bit paranoid. Isn’t this usually Harry’s area of expertise?’

“I’m not being paranoid,” Hermione insists. “I haven’t seen her since graduation and now she’s just  _ there _ .  _ Constantly _ . That’s not normal.”

“Well, maybe she just moved here.” Ginny places the dress back. “Now, let’s focus on the matter at hand; what should I wear for my date tonight?”

Hermione sighs and reluctantly drops the subject. “What sort of things are you going to do on your date?” She doesn’t ask who the lucky lady is, Ginny has had a slew of first dates in the last several years and almost all of them ended in disaster.

“Just dinner, nothing fancy,” she shrugs. “I’ve decided against flying dates ever since Evelynn nearly fainted when I handed her one of my brooms.” Ginny had the very bad luck of attracting women who were just enamoured with her because she was one of the Holyhead Harpies Chasers.

Hermione pauses, looks Ginny up and down and glances around the shop for ideas. “Maybe that denim jacket you have with a tank top and jeans?” she suggests rather uncertainty. It’s an outfit type that she remembers liking very much during the months that they dated.

“Hmm, maybe.” Ginny tilts her head to the side in thought. “I’ll go take a look at the tank tops. Shout if you find any good dress robes.” She walks off to the casual wear section and Hermione is left to leave it to her willpower to not look at Parkinson over in the accessories section.

She desperately wished that dress robes were more interesting, because it really was hard to keep her eyes away from Parkinson. She’s being ridiculous. She’s twenty-six for Merlin’s sake and she’s acting like a fifteen year old. She shouldn’t have to  _ struggle _ to keep her eyes off of a woman that she hasn’t seen since she was nineteen and hadn’t properly  _ thought _ about since she was eighteen.

Maybe lilac would be a good colour for her, Hermione forces herself to think. She reaches out for the lilac robes and immediately decides against it when she feels it’s stiff and scratchy fabric. She goes for a yellow one next, but the fabric is so silky it has trouble staying in her fingers.

“Go for periwinkle.”

Hermione whips around and comes face to face with Pansy fucking Parkinson. Of bloody course, who else would it be? Ginny? Of course not, she thinks bitterly, her luck just wouldn’t allow that.

“What?” she says.

Parkinson pulls out a luxurious blue-purple robe from the racks and shoves it into Hermione’s hands. “Periwinkle, dear,” she drawls. “If you go for that lilac it’ll make you look ill and the cut of that yellow one is all wrong for you.”

Hermione doesn’t want to think about  _ why _ Parkinson would know what robes would look good on her, and she doesn’t get time to as Parkinson performs her little disappearing act yet again.

“Did she approach you or did you approach her?” Ginny asks when she returns with a pile of shirts tucked under her arms.

“What do you think,” Hermione replied dryly.

“And what did she want?”

“She, um, told me to get these robes.”

Ginny eyes the dress robes and slowly adopts an understanding expression that Hermione doesn’t understand. “It’ll look great on you, Mione,” she says with an amused smile.

Hermione wants to ask what the expression’s for, but she doesn’t.

🌻🌻🌻

The next time Hermione sees Parkinson, it’s in Tomes and Scrolls, the Hogsmeade bookshop. And it’s in the romance section.

Trashy romance novels are Hermione’s guilty pleasure that no one other than Luna and Ginny know about and now  _ Parkinson _ is seeing her holding a book with a pair of particularly busty women standing in a not necessarily family friendly way. She feels her face burning in embarrassment.

“I knew you’d fuck a book,” is what Parkinson says.

Hermione splutters and says, “I’m not - that’s - this isn’t-”

Parkinson practically cackles. “Calm down, Granger. Did you get those robes I pointed out to you?”

“Uh, yeah,” she admits.

“Excellent! What were they for?”

“Work,” Hermione replies simply, not wanting to get into the disaster that was  _ that _ particular plea to be listened to.

Parkinson doesn’t press and instead deftly extends a slender finger to pull a book from the shelves. “In that case, since my taste is so unquestionably exquisite,” she drops the book onto Hermione’s pile of books that she has floating beside her, “read that. You’ll like it.”

And then she’s gone.

Hermione puts back the book she’s holding and grabs the one that Parkinson added to the pile.  _ Sleepwalking by Moonlight _ by Violet June. 

It’s rather thicker than most romance books and a hardcover rather than a paperback and has no book jacket. It’s a nice shade of pink, the title is written in a graceful, golden script and has a simple imprint of the moon in the centre of the cover as it’s only decoration. There is no summary that Hermione can find, which normally irritates her beyond belief, but she’s intrigued and sets it back on the stack.


	2. Azaleas

_ Sleepwalking by Moonlight _ turns out to be a beautifully written book, nothing like the trashy romances Hermione guiltily reads and then stores in a far corner of her house. It’s tasteful and interesting. The prose is emotional and the characters are lovable. She may or may not have shed a tear at one point.

The book is about a healer, Katya Evergreen, who has begun sleepwalking out to the beach. She wakes up every day, standing in the ocean and ends up catching the eye of a muggle named Dahlia Worth. Dahlia loves the paranormal and supernatural, Katya finds the strange contraptions that supposedly detect ghosts and ‘otherworldly beings’ wonderfully charming.

Hermione adds the book to her shelf reserved for her favourite books. 

Pansy Parkinson, she loathes to admit, has wonderful taste.

🌻🌻🌻

“You liked the book, I see,” Parkinson says with a delighted look in her eyes. Hermione is back in the romance section specifically to buy more Violet June books.

“You could say that,” Hermione replied coolly. Then, struck with a sudden idea, continues to say, “You know, you’ve pointed out nice dress robes and a good book to me, I should return the favour. Come on.”

Parkinson looks intrigued and follows Hermione to the children’s fiction section.

“Oh, Granger, I give you a lurid, steamy romance and you want me to read a book for children?” Parkinson says, an amused smirk on her face.

“It’s a good book,” Hermione says as she pulls out book one of the Laurel Bethel series;  _ Laurel Bethel and the Disappearing Girl _ by Colleen Harper. Colleen Harper, of course, is a pseudonym for Hermione Granger. 

She has been writing the Laurel Bethel books for several years now and had wanted them to sell on their own right instead of off of her name as a war hero. She should get back to working on the next book, now that she’s not stopping off at the Hog’s Head anymore she has the time to squeeze in  _ some _ writing.

Parkinson takes the book and looks it over. She feels the spine, runs her hand over the embossed lettering on the cover, flips it over, opens it to read the summary printed on the dust jacket and then raises the book to her face and fans the pages with her thumb.

The book snaps shut and she says nothing before stalking off, book still in hand.

🌻🌻🌻

_ The Astonishing Life of Marissa Montegue _ is also a wonderful, beautifully written book that Hermione breezes right through. As is  _ The Birdhouse _ and  _ Nighttime Daydreams _ . She doesn’t tell Parkinson this, of course. She doesn’t need to know that the author she recommended is Hermione’s new favourite, she would probably become unbearingly smug about it.

Much like she is about to become unbearingly smug about Parkinson’s admittance that she enjoyed Laurel Bethel.

“It was good for a children’s book,” is what Parkinson says about it, again in Tomes and Scrolls. Hermione had found her in the children’s section carrying the next four Laurel Bethel books. “I’m interested to see how the author handles her interpretation of Hogwarts,” is her explanation when Hermione comments on it.

“It’s quite good,” Hermione says. 

_ Laurel Bethel and the Disappearing Girl _ takes place the year before Laurel starts at Hogwarts and ends when the Hogwarts deputy headmistress arrives at her door to tell her she’s a witch. Hermione is now working on the sixth book about Laurel’s fifth year and is almost halfway done with the first draft now. She  _ has _ made progress since she stopped drinking. She might reserve the pub for special circumstances.

After the last few days of work, that’s probably one of few wise decisions because the next few months at the very least looks like they’re going to be  _ very fucking stressful _ . If only the Wizengamot would listen to her.

“Have you read any more Violet June?” Parkinson asks. Hermione is startled to find out that they’ve both been walking towards the romance section together.

“A bit,” she replies.

“And...?” Parkinson prompts.

“And they’re fine.”

She makes sure to slip in her next Violet June book with a few different ones so Parkinson doesn’t notice. She would not give her the satisfaction.

Parkinson is staring at her. A calculating stare that confuses Hermione.

“What?” she asks.

“You’re tense,” Parkinson says.

She’s gone.

🌻🌻🌻

“I just don’t understand her,” Hermione says, staring into her cup of tea. Luna is wandering around the sitting room watering all the plants. Her wife, Hannah, is sitting on the couch, her wand in hand as rearranges the mantlepieces.

“Some people don’t want to be understood,” Luna says from somewhere around the far window.

Hannah puts down her wand and takes a sip of her own tea. “So she’s told you which dress robes you should buy and pointed out a really good book to you?”

“...Yes?” Hermione says somewhat hesitantly.

“It sounds like she wants to talk to you.”

Hermione’s eyebrows raise in disbelief. “I highly doubt that that’s true. Why would she just leave out of nowhere every time we talk?”

“Maybe she’s nervous.”

“I doubt that  _ Pansy Parkinson _ is nervous.  _ Why _ would she be nervous?”

“Maybe it’s to make herself seem alluring and mysterious?”

Hermione sighs and takes a sip of her drink. “Hannah, I seriously doubt that.”

"The chittering chameleons think you should reach out to her," Luna says. She's closing a window and walks over to the couch, an airy smile on her face.

"Yes, well, the chittering chameleons also suggested that Laurel should ride a dragon in the next book."

"Dragons are nice."

"Their advice can be rather hit or miss," Hannah says, "but I think they're right. You should try initiating a conversation. Maybe invite her to lunch sometime to show you're interested in making friends?"

"What if I'm not interested in making friends?" Hermione asks with a quirked eyebrow.

Hannah shrugs. "Tell her to sod off, I suppose. I don't know, Mione, it's your decision."

🌻🌻🌻

The next time Hermione sees Parkinson, she flips a coin into her face.

“Congrats on being one month sober,” Parkinson says with a smirk.

Hermione inspects the coin. It’s a sickle that’s been carved to have a ‘ _ 1 _ ’ on it. She sighs and looks at Parkinson. “I’m not-”

“Shut up, we’re going to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate.” She turns on her heels and begins stalking towards the pub. She stops and looks over her shoulder when Hermione doesn’t follow. “Come on, Granger.”

Hermione shakes herself and follows the other woman in silence.

When they enter the pub, Parkinson says, “Sit down, I’m getting your drink. We don’t want to break your sobriety streak, do we?”

Hermione doesn’t bother arguing and just finds a seat while Parkinson maneuvers her way through the crowd. She returns a few minutes later with two butterbeers. She sits across from Hermione and slides her one of the glasses.

Hermione shifts a bit uncomfortably and says, “Um, thank you. But why are you doing this?”

“Darling, if you think I’ll be telling you that, you’re sorely mistaken.”

She’s hardly surprised by this answer.

They slipped into an awkward silence while they sip their butterbeers. Hermione tries to look around the pub, but keeps finding herself looking at Parkinson out of the corner of her eye.

She sits up perfectly straight but despite the fact that she nearly has a foot on Hermione, she only appears slightly taller while sitting - her height is all in her legs. That day, she’s donned a forest green bishop-sleeved shirt that buttons all the way up to her neck. She’s wearing a necklace, a silver chain - no embellishment, no pendants, nothing. It’s just the chain. She brushes some of her hair to rest behind her ear and Hermione notices that she’s wearing simple violet shaped earrings.

Parkinson sets her glass down with a particularly heavy hand and says, “The Laurel Bethel books are... good.”

Hermione nods with a light smile. “Have you finished all the ones that are out?” she asks.

“Yeah. I, er, I really like Octavia Nightshade. She’s kind of badass.”

“I like her a lot too,” Hermione says. She isn’t sure why she’s surprised to hear that Parkinson likes the rambunctious, rebellious character. Somehow, she seems like the type of character she would like.

“How many Violet June books have you read now?” Parkinson asks.

“Um, a few,” Hermione says, not wanting to admit that she’s new reading the very last one she could find.

“And how many is a few? Have you read  _ Marissa Montegue _ ?” Hermione nods. “What about  _ Nighttime Daydreams _ ?” Another nod. Parkinson looks pleased and runs through all the books until she’s gathered that Hermione has finished all of them except for  _ A Wistful Breeze _ . And then, Parkinson says, “You know, there’s a special edition anthology of some of her otherwise unreleased short stories. I could lend you my copy.”

Hermione can’t help lighting up at this. “Can you really? You don’t mind?”

“I’ll only mind if you steal it or if you ruin it. I’m not too worried about it’s wellbeing, though - what with you being who you are.”

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione used to have hobbies, she thinks. Writing used to be a hobby, and she still loves doing it, but it’s not exactly a hobby anymore.

She needs something to do, something meticulous and repetitive that she can just sink in to. She’s too wound up - too nervous. The lull of activity at the Ministry is setting her nerves alight. It has to be a bad sign. She’s sure of it.

Maybe knitting, she thinks as she goes about trying to clean her house. It’s already spotless however, she’s been obsessively cleaning since friday, only stopping to go to the Burrow on saturday.

Perhaps she could try painting.

She opens a drawer on the desk by the door. It’s where she does her writing, but she rarely opens the drawers. A black case slides in the otherwise empty drawer.

Oh right.

She takes out the case and closes the drawer with one deft movement. She sits at the desk and stares at the case for a moment. It’s not a big thing, but it couldn’t fit in any regular sized pocket.

Hermione unzips the case and opens it.

She runs her hands along the tools inside - the bone fold, the scissors, the awl, the brushes, the x-acto knife, the small cutting mat, the artist tape, the sewing kit.

She’d forgotten about book binding.

🌻🌻🌻

Book repairing is exactly the mindless task Hermione needs. It distracts her perfectly during her time spent at home. She’s trying to enjoy the sudden stint of having almost nothing to work on, but she can really only do that when she’s resewing spines and fixing book covers. 

With August comes a sudden tsunami of work. Hermione is yet again fighting to be listened to while the rest of her department generally refuses to listen. Banshees had recently shown an interest in being classified as Beings, but everyone dismissed anything Hermione said on their behalf. Then there’s the exhausting pile of paperwork and supervising her division. It’s all a  _ lot _ for one person.

Hermione begins sleeping in her office.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione returns to Hogsmeade for the first time in three weeks and heads directly to the Three Broomsticks. She’ll need to go back soon, so she can’t get a firewhiskey. She gets a butterbeer and hopes it’ll calm her frayed nerves and ground her. She’s been tense, dazed and vaguely separate from her body for a few days now.

“You look like utter shite, dear.” 

Parkinson slides into the chair across from Hermione.

“Where’ve you been, anyways? On a bender, perhaps?”

“I’ve been working,” Hermione replies wearily.

“Yourself to death?”

Hermione frowns into her drink. Yeah, maybe to her death. This time of year is always hectic, but it seems to be getting worse and worse.

Parkinson sighs and slides a vial towards Hermione. She picks it up and inspects the label. ‘ _ ENERGY POTION - THREE DROPS EVERY SIX HOURS. _ ’

When she looks up to thank Parkinson, she’s gone.

Hermione downs the rest of her butterbeer and lets three drops of the energy potion fall into her mouth.

🌻🌻🌻

There are azaleas in the windows.

Hermione doesn’t know why, but she stops in front of the little florist shop between the Ministry and the deli she had gone to lunch at.

She’s not sure what she’s doing, but she goes into the shop. She buys a small bundle of azaleas. It’s a muggle shop, she has just enough money on her.

In her office, Hermione transfigures a cup into a vase and puts the flowers into it. She arranges it to sit nicely on her desk.

There’s a small rectangle of paper between the bound together stems, she takes it.

_ The azalea represents many things _

_ but this one is here to remind you _

_ to take care of yourself _

The azaleas die a week later.

🌻🌻🌻

Come September, things calm down. Now, she only has to deal with inspections and paperwork and trying to convince her fellow department heads that what they’re trying to do is a  _ bad _ idea. She knows they won’t listen, she really does, but she won’t stop trying to convince them.

She’s getting more time at home now, she’s been able to write a few more chapters and mend a few more books. She’s normally too tired to leave the house, but one day, when she spots  _ Violets in June: The Violet June Short Story Collection _ , she spontaneously decides to go sit and read in the park on the outskirts of the village.

The park is a calming place. It’s tranquil, usually vacant and quite pretty. Hermione sits on a bench and folds her hands over the book while she just takes in her surroundings. There are flower beds and a lot of bushes and trees that all sway in the gentle wind. The water of the not-quite-a-lake-not-quite-a-pond ripples around the small animals and bugs moving about in it.

She takes a nice, deep breath and opens the book.

🌻

When Hermione puts the book down, Parkinson is sitting beside her, hands tucked away in the folds of her robes as she watches the ducks with a serene expression. The gentle expression is a nice change, it suits Parkinson.

“Still busy with work?” Parkinson asks.

“A bit,” Hermione answers. “It’s slowed down some.”

Parkinson hums thoughtfully. “You know, I don’t think I know what you do.”

“I’m in the Being Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.” 

It feels surreal. Sitting here in a park, side by side with Pansy Parkinson. It feels... Hermione doesn’t think she has the words to properly describe it, but it’s... nice.

Parkinson looks at her. Hermione is about to ask what she’s staring for when she says, “That suits you.”

Hermione isn’t sure what that means. “What about you? What do you do?”

“Oh, this and that,” she replies with a vague wave of her hand. 

Hermione would push, but something stops her. She isn’t sure what. She checks her watch. 

Half six. 

The sun is setting.

Hermione gets to her feet. Parkinson follows. They don’t speak as they walk back to the village. Hermione stops at her door, Parkinson stops as well.

“This is me,” she says.

Parkinson looks at the nice little cottage for a moment, then says, “It’s nice. I’ll see you, Granger.” She walks away and Hermione watches her retreating silhouette.


	3. Begonias

The months pass in a blur of monotony - paperwork, inspections, the same arguments over and over again, going home for sleep, repeat. Hermione can’t wait for another work lull.

She goes to the park sometimes. It’s not so hot anymore, so she takes her notebook and writes when she can. She reads sometimes as well, of course, but that’s mostly reserved for when she’s in bed, waiting to go to sleep.

The park is a nice place to write. It’s inspiring in that gentle, almost otherworldly sort of way. She doesn’t know what it is about the park; maybe it’s how it’s almost always empty, maybe it’s the wild life, maybe it’s the quiet.

Hermione finishes her first draft in late November.

Parkinson isn’t around as often anymore and when she is, she seems busy and rarely speaks to Hermione. She’s surprised to find that she misses the other woman’s strange, somewhat disconcerting presence.

🌻🌻🌻

It’s mid December the next time Hermione sees Parkinson. They’re in the Three Broomsticks, Hermione doesn’t know why she’s there, it’s swarming with Hogwarts students and fighting through the crowd without spilling her butterbeer is a struggle all on its own. 

Finding a table is a whole other question.

She’s looking for an empty table when she spots Parkinson, standing in a far corner and sipping a drink. Hermione makes her way to her.

Parkinson looks surprised.

“It’s been a while,” Hermione says.

Parkinson nods. “It has. How’s work?”

“Still busy. And for you?”

“Same,” she says and takes a swig of her drink. It’s not butterbeer or firewhiskey or wine, Hermione really isn’t sure what it is. 

Parkinson’s drink is gone. 

Then Parkinson is gone.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione makes time to go to one of Ginny’s quidditch games. It’s the Holyhead Harpies versus Puddlemere United. Harry, Ron, Luna and Hannah also go.

Harry and Ron get dragged away before the game when Oliver Wood, who’s Keeping for Puddlemere, spots them, so it’s just Luna, Hannah and Hermione.

“How is it with Parkinson?” Luna asks and Hannah looks embarrassed about the question on her wife’s behalf.

“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” Hermione responds. She knows what Luna means.

“Any more flirting?” Hannah asks, despite her previous embarrassment.

“Absolutely not.”

Hannah raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, so she’s given me a sobriety chip.” Hermione fishes the carved sickle out of her pocket and Hannah burst out laughing the minute she catches sight of it. Luna does as well.

“Oi, what’d we miss?”

Ron and Harry sit in the row in front of the girls.

“Parkinson gave this to Hermione,” Hannah says and holds out the make-shift chip. Harry and Ron start laughing too.

“How long ago did she give this to you?” Harry asks. He hands the sickle back.

Hermione’s face heats up as she takes the coin and tucks it back into her pocket. “July,” she mumbles and her friends start laughing again. “ _ What _ ?” she demands.

“It’s a bit strange that you’re still carrying it around, mate,” Ron says.

Hermione frowns. “I suppose, I haven’t really done it intentionally.”

“That makes it worse,” Harry says.

“Not worse,” Hannah amends, “just... more damning?”

“I think it’s sweet,” Luna says.

Before Hermione can ask what she means by that, the voice of the commentator fills the stadium.

🌻🌻🌻

There are potted begonias on Hermione’s doorstep.

She’s just opened the front door to collect the  _ Quibbler _ from a particularly bright exotic bird. And the begonias are just. There.

Hermione pays the bird and rolls up the newspaper to hold under her arm. She picks up the pot and walks inside. She sets it down on her dining table and immediately notices a little flash of white among the pink and yellow petals and green stems.

It’s a card. It simply says:

_ HARMONIOUS COMMUNICATION - GRATITUDE _

She hasn’t the faintest idea of what that means, so she places the card on her desk. She knows she’ll be looking there later, she can think about it after work.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione doesn’t see Parkinson again until the new year. The first weekend of the new year, to be exact. She’s sitting on the bench Hermione usually occupies, a book open on her lap and a quill out. She’s writing something. Maybe it’s her diary.

When Hermione sits beside her, Parkinson snaps the book shut. It’s a nice journal, leather bound, embossed with subtle flowers. The quill is one of the self inking ones that she bought that day in Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop.

“It’s been a while,” Parkinson says, repeating what Hermione had opened with the last time they met.

“It has,” Hermione replies and they settle into silence. It isn’t awkward, it’s... content. It feels nice, it feels  _ right _ . She’s calm for the first time in months.

The flora of the park sway in the chilly breeze, a light layer of snow covering everything. It’s like a snow globe that’s just settled. An empty, beautiful park. Two people sitting side by side on a bench in a comfortable silence.

“I’ve been at Parkinson Park,” Parkinson says without prompting. Her voice is soft, like she senses the same feeling of serenity that Hermione does and doesn’t want to disturb it. “For the holidays.”

Hermione turns her head to look at Parkinson. She’s staring at her journal, gently twirling her quill against the fingertips of her free hand. There’s something off about her, but Hermione can’t quite place it. She thinks if she asks, she’ll ruin the moment, disturb the peace.

“I didn’t get much time off work,” Hermione says, “but the time I did I got to spend at the Burrow - that’s the Weasley’s house.”

“That’s nice,” Parkinson says. There’s no hint of a sneer or derision at the mention of the Weasleys. Hermione is surprised when she isn’t surprised by that.

They fall into silence once more.

🌻🌻🌻

The nightmares don’t happen very often anymore, but when they do they’re bad. Hermione knows she won’t be sleeping anymore that night.

She wraps a warm robe tightly around her, slips on some shoes and grabs  _ Nighttime Daydreams _ . She leaves her cottage, wand tip lit with a gentle  _ lumos _ and an arm drawn tightly around herself. 

The night is cold, the wind is harsh, the snow is lightly falling. Everything is quiet. Every step brings a little more tranquility to her and every inhale of the achingly cold air brings a little more peace.

Hermione is in the park.

She forgoes her usual bench in favour of sitting by the lake-pond. It’s too small to be a lake. Too big to be a pond. But it’s perfectly calm, even when the animals are out. She skims her fingers through the water. It’s freezing, but the smoothness of it is nice. She watches the ripples as her fingers skate across the surface.

In the wandlight, she can see herself reflected in the dark, mirror-like water when she withdraws her hand back to fold over the book.

Hermione looks... not so good. She’s obviously tired with heavy bags under her eyes and a weary expression. Her hair is both much messier than usual and lacking in its usual fullness and life. She doesn’t know if all of this is from the nightmare or if she’s been walking around like this for the last few months.

Her form is displayed in sharp relief before her eyes and, while she usually has very little problem with her appearance, she can’t help looking away. Her emotions tend to run high after nightmares and bring up things she thought she’d left behind. She gets to her feet and heads for the bench.

Parkinson is there.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Parkinson asks. She looks tired too.

Hermione shakes her head. “No.”

“Neither could I.”

Silence. It’s peaceful, it’s comfortable, it feels like a familiar blanket being wrapped around them.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Parkinson asks. 

Hermione is taken aback. She hadn’t expected that from her. She likes to think she recovers quickly, however. She shrugs. “It’s nothing, just nightmares.”

Parkinson is silent for a long time. “Yeah,” she finally says. “Me too.”

They’re holding hands.

Hermione doesn’t know who reached out to who first, but their hands are there perfectly in the middle of the space between them. Their fingers linked together.

Parkinson’s hand is warm. Comforting.

Neither of them make any move to withdraw. Neither of them make any indication of the sort.

Everything feels right with the world, sitting there in silence with Pansy Parkinson’s hand in Hermione’s.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione finishes the second draft towards the end of January. She drops by Luna and Hannah’s to give them a copy to critique and two extras in case they know anyone who would be willing to help. Hannh says that they shouldn’t have any problems finding some other readers - Hermione’s books are very popular, after all.

She’s giddy, she can’t wait to get the feedback back. She should only need one or two more edits before sending it off for publishing.

She sets a personal goal to be finished by mid May.

🌻🌻🌻

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you here.” Parkinson has approached Hermione at the bar. She tsks and shakes her head. “And here I was with a seven month sobriety chip for you.”

She pulls a sickle with a number seven carved into it. Hermione stares at it for a long moment.

“You know, it’s usually a six month chip,” she finally says, but takes the coin.

Parkinson sniffs and turns up her nose haughtly. “Well,  _ I _ wouldn’t know.” Hermione pockets the sickle and Parkinson sits down. “Seriously, I haven’t seen you drink firewhiskey since I told you to get sober. Did you actually have a problem, Granger?” She eyes Hermione’s glass of firewhiskey.

“No, no,” Hermione quickly says. “I used to come around here to unwind after particularly difficult days at work, but I realized that I was going to be having a lot of those.”

Parkinson quirks an eyebrow and smirks. “And what, pray tell, do you do to unwind now, darling?” There’s a tone of innuendo in her voice that makes Hermione’s face warm, but she does her best to ignore it.

“Book binding,” she answers and Parkinson laughs.

“That is very  _ you _ .”

Hermione takes a swig of her drink.

“Why are you drinking now, if you stopped,” Parkinson asks.

Hermione shrugs. “Celebrating.”

She had gotten very positive feedback from one of two readers and was feeling on top of the world. She’s just waiting for Luna and Hannah’s feedback now.

Parkinson looks curious, but doesn’t ask any more questions.

🌻🌻🌻

“Oh, Hermione!” Molly exclaims when Hermione walks into the Burrow. It’s been a long time since she’s been able to get away from work to go to the weekly sunday lunch.

“It’s good to see you, Molly,” she says as she’s pulled into a tight hug.

“You too, dear, you too.” Molly pulls back and flicks her wand to stop the kettle’s whistling. “We’re having lunch in the dining room today - I’m afraid it’s too cold out for the usual set up. Everyone should be in there.”

Hermione nods and leaves the kitchen.

The inside of the Burrow has been magically expanded to accommodate for the increased number of Weasleys. There’s Molly and Aurthur, of course, and Harry and Ron, Fleur and Bill with Victoire and Dominique, George with Angelina and their son Fred, Percy with Audrey and Edith and Ginny with one of her teammates - Emelie, maybe?

“You’ve got to ask for better hours, Mione!” Ron exclaims after lunch has been served.

“That’s right, they’re running you half to death,” Molly agrees and begins piling food on Hermione’s plate.

Hermione sighs. “It can’t be helped,” she says. “I can manage the work I usually have, but the rest of the Being Division  _ and _ the Beast and Spirit Divisions won’t listen to me when I tell them that banshees should be Beings. Did you know that they’ve been pushing them around for  _ years _ but I’m the only one who’s actually talked to any of them?”

“Really?” Harry said. “That’s... pretty bad.”

Hermione nodded. “And Adam Claes is claiming that I’m unqualified and biased. It’s absolutely ridiculous.”

Arthur gives her a sympathetic look. “Don’t listen to him, Hermione. You’re more than qualified.”

“Can’t you ask someone else to take over some of your duties?” Harry asks. “We do that all the time at St Mungo’s.”

Hermione shakes her head. “No, I haven’t got the staff and the Ministry won’t allocate more funding to the division. We’re  _ nonessential _ .”

“But you’re in the Beings Division!” Ron exclaims indignantly. “How is that nonessential?”

Hermione purses her lips. “Apparently enough of the Wizengamot believes that all the division does is deal with the goblins.”

Other than that, the conversations held at the lunch are friendly and easy going. Hermione has a nice chat with Victoire and Edith about birds. They’re both very into birds at the moment. She also talks with Fleur and, surprisingly, George about Violet June books and she tries to keep up with the quidditch talk between Harry, Ron, Angelina, Audrey, George, Bill and all of the children but is quickly lost.

Before Hermione heads back to Hogsmeade, she is dragged into Arthur’s shed to tell him about headphones and microwaves.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione stares at the dead begonias. She doesn’t know if they’re dead because it’s winter and that’s when plants die, or because she hasn’t taken care of them. She suspects it’s both. But primarily her lack of care.

She doesn’t know what compels her to, but she writes to Molly.

_ Molly, _

_ I have acquired some plants over the last few months, they’ve all died and I was hoping you knew a spell to remedy this? If you have any flower caretaking tips, those would be wonderful as well. _

_ Love, _

_ Hermione _

Once the letter is put away in an envelope, she leaves her house before she can stop to second guess herself and heads for the postal office. She picks an owl, pays and sends the letter off.

She leaves the shop and almost immediately bumps into someone. A tall, slender someone.

“Watch where you’re going, Granger,” Parkinson says in an almost teasing sort of way.

“Right, sorry,” Hermione says.

Parkinson smirks, she opens her mouth to say something, then her eyes widen and she says, “Shit, gotta go.” She unceremoniously goes dashing out through the crowd. It’s a Hogsmeade weekend for the Hogwarts students, so Parkinson disappears into the crowd almost immediately.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione is tired, she’s so tired.

She wishes someone would listen to her.

“Hermione,” Isabell Fawley, the head of the Spirit Division, says, “calm down, for the love of Merlin. It’s just banshees, they’ve been shoved around the classings for years.”

“But that’s not good! They shouldn’t just be shuffled around,” Hermione replies hotly.

“Listen, this isn’t your division-”

“It very much is! Banshees are perfectly fit to be labelled as Beings and they  _ want _ the title.”

Fawley cuts her off by raising her hand and saying, “Hermione, we can handle this. Now, I suggest you either go do your work or take a break. You’re not looking too hot.”

“Thanks, I know,” Hermione grumbles. Fawley raises an eyebrow and she quickly corrects, “Thank you, Fawley.”

“Ibb.”

“Thank you, Ibb,” Hermione corrects.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione wakes up at her desk. Her back hurts, her neck aches, her head is pounding in pain and she’s staring at the transfigured vase that still holds the dead azaleas. The little note stands out in stark relief against the withered stems.

Her eyes focus on the words ‘ _ take care of yourself _ .’


	4. Daffodils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate chapter title: hermione granger needs to sleep for two months straight and get a better job

_ Hermione, _

_ I’m glad you’re taking an interest in plants, dear, I haven’t anyone to discuss them with at the moment, I’m more than happy to help you in any way I can. Unfortunately, I don’t know any spells to bring a plant back to life, if you find one, let me know! _

_ Love, _

_ Molly _

With the letter is a list of gardening tips that is mostly useless to Hermione at the moment, but if she ever does somehow end up with a garden, it will be very useful. Honestly, she still isn’t sure why she had written to Molly about flower care. And she doesn’t even have time to tend to any flowers at the moment.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione finishes her third draft towards the beginning of March and sends it off the be read again. She’s fidgety and nervous about the feedback and wants to get it back as soon as possible.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione is wrapped in a blanket in the park, she’s rereading  _ The Birdhouse _ . All of her Violet June books are well on their way to becoming well thumbed; they’ve become a sort of comfort for her. They always manage to catch her attention and they’re always calming and grounding. Of course, she’ll never tell Parkinson this.

“You look comfortable.”

Parkinson drops down to sit next to her. Hermione is surprised that she just sits on the ground like that, she would have thought Parkinson would be a bit uptight about that with all her fancy robes and pureblood sensibilities.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Hermione says and closes the book. 

Parkinson smiles at her and something deep in the pit of her stomach flutters and bursts like a rapidly blooming flower. She wants to make Parkinson smile that genuine smile as much as possible.

There are freckles on her nose, Hermione notices for the first time. They’re light and so, so easy to miss, but they seem like an important part of her face - as if losing the freckles would turn her into a completely different person. Hermione thinks that she’s beautiful and she smiles back.

A knee knocks against Hermione’s and she feels like she might explode - in a truly wonderful way. And then Parkinson’s leg from the knee down, is resting against Hermione’s.

Parkinson leans back and lies down, folding her hands over her midsection. Her hair fans out around her face. It’s grown since that night at the Hog’s Head. Then, it only just reached her chin, now it nearly reaches her shoulders. Hermione doesn’t know if she likes it shorter or longer, but she thinks Parkinson with properly long hair would look strange. She wouldn’t look like herself.

“You’re staring,” Parkinson says as she stares back.

Hermione looks away and, instead of replying, lays back with Parkinson.

They lay and stare up at the clouds in a wonderful silence that feels permeated with understanding and comfort for what feels like a long time. Their knees press together, their hands slowly inch towards each other until they’re threaded into each other. Hermione doesn’t think she’s ever felt so content.

🌻🌻🌻

It begins to get warmer again and Hermione finds herself eternally grateful for cooling spells. It’s too hot to be wearing long sleeves -even if she’s pushed them up to her elbows- but she is, like she always does.

She’s sitting at one of the Three Broomsticks outside tables, waiting for Harry and Ron to turn up from lunch when Parkinson sits down beside her. She’s unusually fidgety and seems about to dash out of her chair.

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Is something the matter?” she asks.

Parkinson looks somewhat alarmed. “What? Oh, no, not at all.” She returns to her usual cool demeanor. “Tough day at work, is all.”

Hermione nods and doesn’t push.

“Mione!”

Ron and Harry are approaching. They pause when they spot Parkinson.

“Oh,” Ron says, “hey, Parkinson.”

“I didn’t realize you were meeting your friends,” Parkinson says and makes to stand up.

“You don’t have to go,” Hermione says and, without thinking, grabs her arm to keep her there. “If you aren’t in a hurry, it’s just a casual lunch, I’m sure Harry and Ron won’t mind. Will you?” She sends a pointed look to the boys.

“No, of course not,” Harry says and sits down, taking Ron’s hand and bringing him down with him. “We don’t mind.”

Parkinson looks between the three of them and relaxes back into her seat. “Alright.”

Hermione nods and gives a small smile.

“So, Parkinson,” Harry says, “Hermione’s told us... er, not  _ a lot _ about you, but some things?”

One of Parkinson’s well manicured eyebrows raises. “Has she, now? And what has she told you?”

Hermione quickly racks through everything she thinks she’s told Harry and Ron about Parkinson -which is admittedly very little- to make sure she hasn’t said anything that could be used against either of them.

“Er, well, she’s really only told us about you giving her a fake sobriety chip,” Harry admits.

“Yes, I’m very proud of her,” Parkinson says solemnly, then smirks.

As the conversation progresses, Parkinson speaks very little and she seems perfectly content with that. She’s a woman of surprisingly few words and seemingly disappears in between the discussion of one of Harry’s more gruesome patients -which she had seemed fascinated in- and being asked what she did for a living.

“And you two are really friends?” Ron asks after she leaves.

“I - I think so,” Hermione replies. “It’s a bit weird.”

"It does seem a bit weird. She’s a bit weird," Harry says.

“Yeah, she is.”

🌻🌻🌻

The feedback of Hermione’s next book comes back; it’s overwhelmingly positive. She sends it off to her publisher.

The next week, she sets the release date for September nineteenth.

🌻🌻🌻

It’s mid May the next time Hermione sees Parkinson. She’s waiting for her publisher to say her book’s ready to be released and she’s been forced out of the office. She suspects Claes and Fawley have convinced Whitehurst, the Department Head, to give her a three week paid leave so she can’t interfere with their asinine ideas.

“Bad day at work?”

Parkinson drops down beside her on the park bench. She’s as composed as ever, her robes folded over on her arm and her hair looks like it’s been freshly cut.

“Bad day at being forced to take a paid leave from work,” Hermione corrects.

Parkinson raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to explain that or am I just supposed to figure out how that’s bad on my own?”

Hermione crosses her arms and purses her lips. “They’re only doing it to keep me from arguing about how banshees should be Beings. I’m the only one who's ever spoken to any banshees and they’re just...  _ ugh _ .”

“You could send them a bunch of howlers. I know a spell to make them loud enough to make ears bleed.”

“No,” Hermione shakes her head. “Thank you, but I think I’ll pass on that. I’d like to return to my job some day, after all.”

Parkinson gives a small smile and Hermione finds herself wanting to lean in to her, tuck her head under the other woman’s sharp chin. She doesn’t, of course. She’s perfectly content to just sit there with her, she always is.

“Suit yourself,” she says and throws an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “We’ll get those fuckers some way else.” She adopts a strange expression for a second, before going to a smirk. “What do you think about anonymous hate mail? Perhaps with some undiluted bubotuber pus?”

Hermione snickers. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“Of course, I’ll be sending them the bubotuber pus with or without you.”

Parkinson leans and easily rests her head on Hermione’s.

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

🌻🌻🌻

When Hermione returns to her house, arms full of grocery bags, there’s a bouquet of bright yellow daffodils on her doorstep. She smiles and steps around the flowers to put the food in her house. Once inside, all Hermione has to do is flick her wand and the groceries are sent into their proper places in the kitchen.

She grabs the daffodils and sits on the sofa, tucking her feet up under her.

The paper wrapped around the long stalks is soft and probably ridiculously expensive for a simple piece of white paper. Hermione smells the flowers and finds that the fragrance is subtle, but wonderful.

She transfigures a vase out of a bowl and puts the daffodils in it after casting an  _ aguamenti _ to fill it with water.

Hermione hopes she can keep these ones alive.

🌻🌻🌻

“Back in the bookstore, darling?”

Parkinson is leaning against the bookshelf beside Hermione, who is looking for any books on plant care.

“Starting a garden, are you?” Her eyes shine, as if excited.

“Not exactly,” Hermione replies as she replaces a book that she’s decided won’t be helpful.

“Oooh, and what does that mean?”

“I recently acquired some daffodils and I’d like to keep them alive.”

Parkinson nods and smiles. Her hand glides over the shelves and she deftly pulls out several books and puts them in Hermione’s hands. “These should be helpful, then.”

Hermione goes to thank her, but she’s gone by the time she opens her mouth

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione buys a windowsill planter and a bag of dirt. With the help of a spell to regrow roots that she got from Molly, the daffodils take root. Hermione is pretty proud of her flowers; they're still alive after a week in her care, after all.

It’s getting hard to keep up with everything, though. There’s... a lot to do. 

All the time.

Hermione is  _ always _ exhausted, she feels as if she’s always on the verge of passing out or crying from the sheer stress. She’s back at work. Banshees are still classified as Beasts and no one will listen to her complaints.

She thinks she hates the Ministry. She thinks she’s always hated the Ministry.

If she had more time she might think about why she was even working for the Ministry. Why was she still there? Why had she decided it would be a good idea in the first place?

The answer, she knew, was a simple one; to do her best to help all the creatures she could. But it’s been seven years and she hasn’t made so much as a dent in any legislation. She doesn’t even know what she does every day, it all just blends together in a blur of monotonous paperwork and arguments that mean nothing and do nothing and are just... nothing.

It’s not like she actually has the time or energy to properly think about any of this, though, so nothing happens. 

She does nothing. 

Nothing changes.

She’s just stuck in a monotonous roundabout of  _ nothing _ .

🌻🌻🌻

“You’re unhappy.”

Hermione looks at Harry. He looks terrible, like he hasn’t been getting enough sleep. Not that that’s anything new. But he does look happy, she thinks he enjoys his work but, honestly, he should be taking better care of himself.

“I don’t know why you’d say that,” Hermione replies. She lowers her eyes to her drink, intending to lift the cup to take a sip, but instead she gets absorbed in the swirling of the liquid. Coffee swirling in a ceramic mug, twisting and turning and mesmerizing.

“Hermione,” Harry says and she can almost feel his gaze; worried and stern and concerned. “I’ve known you for how long? I can tell when you’re unhappy.”

The muggle coffee shop is quiet for the most part, despite the fact that many of the seats are filled. Everyone seems to be there to work or read or draw or talk in hushed tones or simply sit there and enjoy the coffee and pastries.

“You can tell me what’s wrong,” Harry says.

Hermione shakes her head. “I’m not sure what’s wrong.”

Harry gives her a look of understanding. Of course he would understand, Harry always understands this sort of thing. Hermione doesn’t know what she would do without him.

His hand takes hers on the table and squeezes gently. “It’ll be okay. When you figure out what’s wrong, remember that I’m here for you.”

Hermione smiles and nods and she’s so unbelievably grateful for Harry.

🌻🌻🌻

“You’re unhappy.”

Parkinson is sitting beside Hermione on the bench. Hermione doesn’t doesn’t remember when she got there, but the sun is setting. The words disorient her, her conversation with Harry echoes around in her head.

“Maybe,” she says eventually.

They’re quiet for a long time.

“I used to be too.” Parkinson’s voice breaks the silence. 

Hermione becomes aware of their proximity; shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. She wants to lean into the warmth, lean into Parkinson. Wants to be wrapped in her arms and kissed and-

“Unhappy, that is,” Parkinson clarifies. “I used to be unhappy, too.”

Hermione turns to look at the woman beside her. She’s still sharp - her nose is sharp, her browline is sharp, her chin is sharp, even her bloody hair is sharp. It suits her, she has a severe yet gentle kind of sharpness. Hermione doesn’t fully understand it, but she thinks Parkinson is beautiful.

“What changed?” Hermione asks.

Parkinson looks back at her. Her eyes are soft and wonderful and feel like home. “I got a job, I moved away from my parents. It sounds like it happened a while ago, but it was actually only last year. About a week before that first time we met again - at the Hog’s Head, you know.”

Hermione nods and looks back at the not-quite-a-pond. “What  _ is _ your job? You never said.”

“Oh, I teach. At Hogwarts. Alchemy and Ancient Magic.”

“I didn’t know that was a class.”

“It didn’t used to be,” Parkinson answers. “Minerva’s added a lot of courses. I know Dumbledore was a genius or whatever, but that man didn’t know how to run a school.”

Hermione nods her quiet agreement. Dumbledore had been wise, but she doesn’t think he was as great as people seem to think. Both at his job and everything else. She asks, “What has she changed?”

“Well, Muggle Studies is mandatory now and Astronomy is an elective. She’s also added Language and Critical Thinking, Mathematics and Sciences, Government and Magical Theory as required classes. And there’s now Art and Political Theory for electives.”

“Sounds like the students will be coming out much more sensible now,” Hermione says. Parkinson laughs - no, she cackles and the sound should be harsh and jarring, but it, much like Parkinson herself, is sharp but comfortable.

🌻🌻🌻

The next time Hermione manages to get to a Weasley lunch, Molly first hugs her so tight she can hardly breathe, then gives fills her arms with all sorts of seeds and books and notes before firmly telling her that she needs to demand better working hours.

“You’re getting thin,” Molly tells her and the words ring untrue. Hermione knows it’s Molly’s way of showing that she cares, to give someone more food than they could possibly eat, but Hermione also knows she’s being told she looks like shit because she does.

Ron lacks his mother’s special brand of subtlety and instead says, “You look like shit,” when Hermione sits down.

“ _ Ron _ ,” Molly says sharply from across the room and Harry, who still looks terrible, shakes his head.

“He says the same thing to me every time I get home,” he says.

“That’s because you also look like shit,” Ron insists.

“ _ Ronald _ .”

“Sorry, mum, but they’re both being run ragged!”

“ _ I’m _ perfectly fine-” Harry starts.

“You came home with half your hair fallen out two days ago.”

“Yeah, well, it’s grown back, hasn’t it?”

Ron shakes his head, looking exasperated, but endlessly affectionate.

“Besides, Hermione’s worse off than me.”

“Oh, is it gang up on Hermione week?” she asks, feeling exhausted.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ginny says. “It’s make sure Hermione doesn’t die week and that’s every week.”

“Well, I’m fine,” Hermione insists. “Seriously, I’m alright. Stop worrying.”

No one looks convinced, but no one pushes it either.


	5. Plumerias

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops this chapter is basically just 'hermione has problems and then pansy has problems'

The next time Hermione sees Parkinson, it’s the end of June and Parkinson is positively glowing.

“There’s a new Violet June book,” is what she says. “Just released. Look - I got you a signed copy.”

Something in Hermione’s chest seems to bloom at the words.  _ I got you a signed copy _ . Parkinson had thought about her. She had thought about her and got her a signed copy of a brand new release from her favourite author.

She grins and takes the book and finds that she can’t speak, so she wraps her arms around Parkinson and hugs her as tight as she can. She can feel Parkinson laugh as she folds her arms around Hermione as well. She leans down slightly so she can rest her chin on Hermione’s head, and Hermione knows that it must be uncomfortable, so she raises to the tips of her toes.

Parkinson laughs again, it’s gentle and warm and Hermione grins so wide it hurts.

🌻🌻🌻

The new Violet June book is called  _ Honeycombs and Vampire Bites _ . It’s a beautifully intricate story about a beekeeper and a vampire. Hermione loves it very, very much and loses many nights of sleep to read and reread it. Each reread brings another layer of depth and understanding that had previously gone unnoticed.

It breaks up the monotony her life has fallen into. It’s a consistent spot of clarity in the blur of work.

🌻🌻🌻

It’s the middle of the night.

Hermione has just had a nightmare.

She’s planting flowers.

The daffodils are somehow still alive. She hasn’t been doing a fantastic job of keeping up with their care, so she suspects it’s some sort of fluke. 

She has no idea why she’s doing this.

She probably won’t be able to even get these to sprout.

She supposes she’s in a kind of manic state. She’s trying not to think about her nightmare. Anything, she needs to do  _ anything _ other than thinking about it, so she plants flowers and hopes the thoughts stop and the feelings go away.

She’s crying.

Hermione doesn’t know why since she’s decidedly  _ not thinking about it _ , but she’s crying as she shovels dirt into pots. Fat tears roll down her cheeks and splash into the dirt. It’s an ugly cry, her nose runs, her vision goes entirely fuzzy, she has to drop the trowel, she’s whimpering loudly.

With her hands empty she draws her legs up to her, presses her eyes into her knees and fists her hands in her hair.

She doesn’t know what’s happening, why she’s crying, why she’s  _ wailing _ , but she suspects it’s about more than just the nightmare.

🌻🌻🌻

“You look like shit, dear.”

Parkinson sits across from Hermione in the new cafe down the street from Hermione’s cottage. It’s called the Cauldron and Kettle. It’s nice. All the chairs are armchairs, it feels like the Gryffindor common room with food, drinks, music and the occasional live performance.

“I’ve been hearing that a lot lately,” Hermione replies. She doesn’t want to admit how long ‘lately’ is.

“I’m getting you a pepper-up butterbeer.”

The Cauldron and Kettle specializes in specialty drinks - usually something mixed with a potion. 

Hermione doesn’t bother telling Parkinson not to get her a drink. She wants to, but she’s just so tired. She feels like shit all the time now and the previous night’s outburst isn’t helping.

Parkinson returns with the drink and says, “The only reason I’m not asking you for a galleon is because you just look  _ that bad _ . Now, drink up. Seeing you so put out is disturbing.”

The drink is cold. It’s nice for the hot July air but it has a spiciness to it from the pepper up potion. Hermione almost instantly feels a bit better, even if she can feel the small trails of smoke coming out of her ears.

“So what’s wrong?” Parkinson asks, her gaze intense.

“Nothing,” Hermione says. Parkinson looks unconvinced. Her stare sharpens and she opens her mouth, but Hermione cuts her off by sighing and saying, “Fine. I don’t know.”

Parkinson nods and relaxes.

“So,” she says, “What are your thoughts on the new Violet June book?”

Hermione lights up and Parkinson does as well.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione misses writing.

She’s plotted out a very basic skeleton for her next book, but she hasn’t had the time for much else. The rare times that she  _ does _ have time, she finds that she can’t focus. She has to do something simple and repetitive and mindless.

The flowers never sprout.

🌻🌻🌻

A sharp, persistent rap on the door startles Hermione so much she pokes herself with the needle she's using to resew the spine of her copy of  _ Hogwarts: A History _ , which had long since started to fall apart.

It’s pretty late, so she can’t think of anyone who it could be, especially since Harry, Ron, Ginny, Luna and Hannah can all apparate or floo directly into her house.

She gets up to open the door and is surprised to find Parkinson, mid-knock with a creased brow and scowl in place.

"Is something wrong?" Hermione asks.

Parkinson nods jerkily and spins on her heel. She begins walking and Hermione knows she wants her to follow. She steps out onto her doorstep, locks her door with a swish of her wand and hurries after her.

The stop in the park, at their bench. Hermione wonders when  _ the  _ bench became  _ their _ bench.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asks. She examines Parkinson's face as if the line of her mouth, the redness of her eyes and the scrunch of her nose will tell her everything she wants to know.

Parkinson shifts in her seat and casts her eyes around until they eventually settle on something in the distance. She takes a deep breath, then says, “My mum died.”

“Oh,” Hermione says, unsure if she should hug her or not. “Oh, Parkinson - Pansy, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s... I guess it’s fine. We - we haven’t been close in a long time. We haven’t even gotten along since I was in school.” She stares down at her hands and sniffs. “Why am I so upset?” Her voice wobbles. She balls her hands into fists and rubs at her eyes.

Hermione feels entirely out of depth here. She has a wonderful relationship with her parents, she can’t possibly be a good person for this. Nevertheless, she does her best and says, “Parents are difficult. And death is difficult. Having complicated feelings about this is... understandable, if not expected.”

“I don’t even know what I feel about this. She was horrible, she was just  _ horrible _ and she made me do and think and say  _ terrible  _ things. I should be glad she’s gone, right? It should be a relief and... I guess it is, but it still hurts. It’s - she’s my  _ mum _ .”

And then Parkinson practically throws herself on Hermione. She wraps her arms around her and sobs openly into her shoulder. Hermione is surprised, but once she’s recovered she hugs back and holds tight until Parkinson’s shaking has subsided and she begins to pull away.

Hermione slowly withdraws her arms as Parkinson leans away from her. Her face is red and she’s trying to look anywhere but at Hermione.

“Sorry,” she mutters.

“Don’t apologize,” Hermione tells her.

They sink into silence, it’s charged and feels oddly thick around them, but it isn’t quite uncomfortable. It feels like Parkinson’s emotions are radiating off of her. As time passes, the energy in the air calms and it recedes to the peaceful niceness that Hermione has grown accustomed to.

“Thank you.”

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione sees Parkinson everyday after that night, but they rarely talk. They just sit in a comfortable silence. She has no idea if she’s upset or not. Hermione tends to work on paperwork in these times, sitting there in the park, while Parkinson scribbles away in a notebook.

“Granger,” Parkinson says a week after the death of her mother. Her notebook is closed on her lap, her quill twists slowly between her thumb and forefinger. “This is probably a strange request, but will you come to my mother’s funeral with me?”

Hermione blinks. She’s entirely taken aback by the question and she means to formulate a tasteful question, but only says, “Why?”

“I think... I think I’d like to go. To get my last words out to her before she’s buried. It’s a bit stupid, I know-”

“It’s not stupid.”

“Granger, it’s stupid. I want to go yell at a corpse and I don’t want to be alone with a family that I hate.”

“Of course I’ll go with you,” Hermione says. “But why me? Surely there’s someone else you could...” she trails off and it occurs to her that she’s never heard Parkinson talk about any friends or anything of the sort.

Parkinson shakes her head. “You better not tell anyone I said this, but you’re the only friend I really have anymore. That I’ve had... in a long time.”

Hermione can’t help it. She hugs Parkinson.

🌻🌻🌻

Parkinson takes Hermione robe shopping.

She insists on trying on dozens of robes, all austere and black and Hermione is sure they don’t suit her. Parkinson insists that she looks wonderful in all of them.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione gets time off work to attend Perennial Parkinson’s funeral. Whitehurst tells her it’s about time she used up some of her vacation days.

She meets Parkinson outside the Hog’s Head. She looks wonderful in black, but very severe and intimidating save for the faint freckles that are now accented by the dark attire. Hermione can’t help noticing them now. She towers over Hermione, and looks impassive. She’s completely unreadable.

“Ready?” Hermione asks.

“Ready,” Parkinson says and holds out her arm. Hermione wraps a hand around her forearm and feels the squeezing pull of apparition.

They land in a vast field. There’s a massive house off in the distance and a forest surrounding the land. 

There are no flowers.

Parkinson is tense. Hermione isn’t sure if she’s the one who grabs Parkinson’s hand or if Parkinson is the one who grabs her hand, but she holds tight and hopes it’s reassuring. She thinks it is by the way Parkinson squeezes back.

The other visitors all seem to be arriving at the front gates; Hermione can see them streaming in through them and over to the area that’s been set up for the event. They join the other’s. They both want to find a seat and wait and not talk to anyone else, but their plans are thwarted when a tall boy shows up. 

He looks remarkably like Parkinson, he’s a bit shorter and lacks all the underlying gentless. He holds the same arrogant, wrinkle-nosed expression that Parkinson had held in their school days.

“How good of you to join us, Pansy,” he sneers. “And you’ve brought a... friend.” His eyes flicker to Hermione, his distaste evident in everything from his expression to his tone.

“Yes, Pericles, I’ve brought a friend to support me in this trying time,” Parkinson drawls.

“Bullshit,” Pericles says. “You don’t give a damn that mum died. You’re just here to anger her, and bringing  _ her _ here is just another way to ensure that you do just that.”

Parkinson pinches the bridge of her nose, inhales, then turns to Hermione. “Apologies for my brother. He’s never quite grasped the concept of manners.”

Pericles Parkinson’s face screws up into a pinched, slightly pink expression before walking away.

“It’s good to see that he has  _ some _ common sense and won’t stoop so low as to fight at a funeral,” Parkinson says.

“What did he mean bringing me here would be a way to ensure angering your mother?” Hermione asks, drawing her attention back to Parkinson.

“Well, you’re one of Harry Potter’s best friends and mother has always been staunchly in favour of You-Know-Who,” she says in a surprisingly casual voice. “She’s never said it officially -for deniability, of course- but she was always very vocal about her views within our home.”

“Oh. Well, if I’ll be helping you to anger your dead mother count me in. She sounds horrendous.”

“That she was. Thank Merlin you’ve never had to meet her.” Parkinson takes two glasses of wine from one of the roaming waiters and hands one to Hermione. She cracks a small smile. “To angering the deceased.”

Hermione echoes her and they clink their glasses together before drinking.

“That’s  _ horribly _ inappropriate, ladies.”

A very disgruntled looking woman is standing by them, her arms folded and a scowl marring her face.

“Oh, yes, Aunt Persimmon,” Parkinson says. “We are  _ deeply _ sorry if we upset any of the mourners.”

Persimmon huffs and narrows her eyes, her gaze slides between Hermione and Parkinson. She purses her lips.

“Aunt Persimmon, this is my friend, Hermione Granger. Granger, this is my aunt, Persimmon Parkinson.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Parkinson,” Hermione holds out her free hand and Persimmon sniffs haughtly, but shakes the proffered hand.

When she withdraws her hand, Persimmon glares at Parkinson. “You’re a disgrace to your parents, you know,” she says and moves away as quickly as she could while still looking casual.

“Is all your family like that?” Hermione asks, an eyebrow raised in mild amusement.

“Unfortunately,” Parkinson sighs and takes another sip of her wine.

“Well, now I know where you get your charm.”

“So I’m charming, am I?” Parkinson gives a shark-like grin.

Hermione elbows her gently. “We should sit before more people come over here to lecture you.”

Parkinson shrugs. “Fair enough.”

They find seats in a far area that had been strategically picked to make sure they could get up to the casket before it was moved to the graveyard even if they’re intercepted on the way, but they also won’t have to sit around many other people during all the eulogies and speeches.

A few more Parkinsons and friends of the family approach them to speak to them in very similar tones of cold disapproval.

Throughout the eulogies, Parkinson whispers to Hermione. The speaker will say “Perennial loved everyone” and she would solemnly whisper “unless you happen to disagree with her.” Sometimes the quiet corrections get rather funny and Hermione guiltily has to force herself not to laugh, but others get pretty bad and end up sending Parkinson into silence for several minutes until the speaker says something so egregiously wrong that she just  _ has _ to correct it.

After everyone who wanted to say something about Perennial Parkinson has spoken, people begin to line up to say their goodbyes to her corpse, while others continued their mingling from earlier. There are some tears, but there’s just as much cold near-emotionlessness that even Parkinson doesn’t have.

Hermione and Parkinson are at the back of the line, and as they draw nearer, Parkinson becomes more and more tense. Hermione takes her hand again and she holds on tight the rest of the slow walk up to the open coffin.

When Parkinson finally gets to it, Hermione separates herself from her and casts a silencing charm as soon as she hears Parkinson’s voice shake.

The few people who notice her obvious yelling seem annoyed or angry or upset about it, but no one really draws attention to it, though Hermione is sure some of the sneers and eye rolls she sees are about her.

Several minutes pass before Parkinson walks back to Hermione. She’s crying, but is acting like she isn’t. So Hermione acts like she isn’t too.

“Thanks,” she says, her voice hoarse. She clears her throat and takes Hermione’s hand again. “For the silencing charm. For coming with me.”

Hermione nods and squeezes her hand. “Of course.”

The burial is in the Parkinson graveyard - this is where all the flowers are.

Flowers everywhere. They grow from the graves and sprout massive, bright flowers. It would be beautiful and poetic in another graveyard, here it feels... not quite right. Grotesque. Wrong.

Parkinson and Hermione stand by the fresh grave for a long time, hands still clasped together even as everyone else leaves. Parkinson’s dad is the last to leave, and even then it seems like a cold exit. Like he only stayed for so long to keep up the appearance of a mourning spouse.

Hermione doesn’t know why they’re still there, but Parkinson makes no indication about wanting to leave.

She withdraws her hand from Hermione’s, gently. She retrieves her wand and kneels down.

“ _ Orchidious _ ,” she says and a bouquet of pink and yellow, fan-like flowers sprout from the wand tip. She places them against the headstone and sits there for several long moments before saying, “Do you know what plumerias represent?”

Hermione shakes her head. “No, I don’t.”

Parkinson stands up and when she faces Hermione she’s smiling.

“New beginnings.”


	6. Peonies

By the time September comes around, Hermione is drowning in work yet again. And it really feels like she’s drowning. Yet again, she can rarely even manage to get home. She’s sure her daffodils are dead.

She sends Parkinson a signed copy of the next Laurel Bethel book two days before the release date, claiming she had pre-ordered it in a letter that also apologized for not being around lately.

Parkinson writes back.

_ Dear Granger, _

_ Thank you for the Laurel Bethel book, I haven’t had much time to read lately, but it’s just as wonderful as the rest of the books so far. _

_ Don’t apologize for your workload, Septembers always seem to be busy. Maybe we can meet up sometime for lunch? I’ve already told you something embarrassing about myself so you have to do the same. _

_ The Cauldron and Kettle this saturday at noon? _

_ -Pansy❧ _

Hermione spends far too long staring at the little leaf Parkinson has drawn beside her name. And she spends too long inspecting every curve and line of every word. Parkinson’s handwriting is elegant, thin and beautiful. 

She confirms the date and time for the meeting without even double checking her calendar.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione arrives at the Cauldron and Kettle an hour early. She's excited to see Parkinson again - she has this little flutter in her chest at the thought of it. 

She finds a seat by a window and pulls out her notebook and begins expanding upon the outline for the next Laurel Bethel book. 

It's probably the most productive writing session she's had in several months, but it’s cut short by Parkinson arriving only thirty minutes later. She isn't at all disappointed. She grins at Parkinson and feels like flowers are sprouting inside her. She closes her notebook.

"You're early," she notes.

Parkinson smirks. "You're earlier." She sits across from Hermione and her smirk turns into a small smile. "Have you had anything yet?"

Hermione shakes her head. "Not yet, I wanted to wait for you."

“Oh, how romantic, dear,” Parkinson drawls, but she’s still smiling and Hermione wants to argue, but something about the words made Hermione giddy and she can’t stop grinning and the flowers in her are fluttering about. “I’ll get something for us. It’ll be a surprise.” 

Parkinson stands up and Hermione watches her walk to the counter and order. She looks nice. She’s wearing dark, form fitting trousers and a green cable knit jumper. It’s different than the outfits Hermione usually sees her in.

She returns with two gently steaming cups. She looks pleased with herself as she hands one of the cups to Hermione and sits back down.

Hermione sips the drink and smiles. It’s rose tea, her favourite. Parkinson smiles back.

They sink into their usual comfortable silence and it’s like coming home.

🌻🌻🌻

“You should take more time off,” Ron says. They’re sitting in Hermione’s office with Indian takeout and Hermione is doing her best to eat and work at the same time without causing too much of a mess.

Hermione shakes her head. “No, it was a bad idea. At least spending so much time out was a bad idea.” She and Parkinson had spent a good two and a half hours out for lunch. “I have so much to get caught up on now.”

“Merlin, Mione, it’s just two hours.”

“We’re understaffed, Ron. I get something new to do every twenty minutes,” she replies and curses as she drops some curry on a paper that’s supposed to set an official meeting time between one Hermione’s employees to meet with various groups of centaurs. It’s a simple wave of her wand to get it out of the paper, but it’s still an inconvenience that hammers on her growing stress headache.

“Maybe you should try to apply for more funding to hire more staff? Maybe get an assistant?”

“I’ve done that more times than I can count, but I’m fairly certain that Whitehurst has a grudge against me ever since I tried to start up negotiations with the house elves.”

“Have you gone to Kingsley?” Ron asks.

Hermione groans and lets her head fall into her hands. “ _ Yes _ . We brought the issue to the Wizengamot but it was shot down. Damn it, I have to meet with the Gringotts goblins at... three in the morning?” Her head is still in her hands and her eyes have just focused on the next piece of parchment on her desk.

**_This note is from the Automated Ministry Remind System - do not respond_ **

_ Remember that you have agreed to meet a group of goblins at Gringotts tomorrow at three A.M. after the regrettable actions of your former employee Jameson Rochester. _

Rochester had been an imbecile, completely incompetent and uncaring of non-humans. Firing him was for the best, but really all it had done was add on to her paperwork and funneled more funding into the Beast Division, which really only used the money to assist in the ‘control’ part of ‘Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.’

“ _ Three? _ ” Ron demands. 

Hermione sighs and digs her fingers into her temples. “Yeah, the goblins love making these things as grueling and horrible as possible.”

She feels her patience wearing thin. The dismantling of the Goblin Liaison Department had been among the worst decisions for the department in the last five years and Hermione is really feeling it now.

If only she could go somewhere where time isn’t real and she can just  _ rest _ .

🌻🌻🌻

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Harry asks for what feels like the millionth time in the last half hour.

“Yes, Harry, I’m sure,” Hermione replies emphatically.

Neither Harry nor Ron seem convinced and they share one of those looks that only they could understand, but Hermione can make a pretty good guess as to what it means. She doesn’t think she likes the meaning behind those glances.

“What about you, Harry?” she asks before either of them can press. “How’ve you been?” She hasn’t been able to see him lately as he’s been on call every hour of the day for the last few weeks and it really shows. He has noticeable bags under his eyes and looks underfed. She can’t tell if his large lunch helps with that or not. But he looks happy, these last few months have probably been the happiest Hermione’s ever seen him.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he replies. “And you’d better not start lecturing me about how much of a state I’m in, Ron and Molly do that enough.”

“I don’t lecture you,” Ron insists. “I lovingly tell you to stop being a prat and get more rest. Oh, and speaking of mum, she’s worried about you, Hermione. If you miss one more lunch she’ll probably owl you an entire meal.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t knocked down your door yet,” Harry adds.

Hermione thinks that she wouldn’t actually know if Molly had stopped by or not. She wouldn’t even know if her house had burned down.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione lurches awake, breathing heavily and crying and nearly falling out of her office chair. The lights burn into the back of her eyes, compounding upon the dull ache in her temples to be nearly unbearable.

She fumbles for her potions cabinet and grabs the last of her headache draught. She downs the vial and sits back, her eyes closed as she waits for the pain to go away.

Then it went away and her tears were flowing freely.

Thoughtlessly, she reaches for her floo powder and stumbles to the fireplaces. She just wants to lie down in her bed, burrow under her blankets and hug her pillow so tightly it hurts until she falls asleep.

🌻🌻🌻

She wakes up to a huge basket of food on her table and an owl flying around her house. When she grabs the letter in the basket, the owl flies out the window that Hermione can’t remember opening.

She opens the letter.

It’s simple, and uncharacteristically short for Molly Weasley. It tells Hermione to remember to take care of herself.

🌻🌻🌻

It’s one of Hermione’s rare days off and she’s lying in the grass of the park. She was sitting on the bench, but found herself feeling faint and vaguely nauseous. Lying down helps. It eases the pounding headache that hasn’t seemed to leave her in months. The gentle rustling of the grass was uncomfortable at first, but now it’s nice.

She wishes she could do something, preferably write, but she can’t focus. She needs time to just... lie there.

Someone lies down beside her.

She turns her head. 

It’s Parkinson. 

She smiles and then grimaces when it makes her headache worse.

Parkinson smiles as well, but frowns at the grimace. “Are you alright?” she asks.

“Just a headache,” Hermione replies and returns her gaze to the sky.

Parkinson hums in acknowledgment and laces her fingers into Hermione’s.

They lapse into silence.

It’s so comfortable Hermione could just fall asleep.

And then, she’s struck by a sudden need to get up and do something productive. She’s wasting her time, lying there like there’s nothing to do. There’s too much to do. Even if she’s finished her paperwork for the moment, she has  _ loads _ to do. There’s  _ so, so  _ much to do. There’s always so much to do.

She lurches up to a sitting position and is struck by a sudden bolt of paint through her head. She groans and presses the palms of her hands into her eyes, willing the pain to go away. The nausea resurfaces at the pit of her stomach and she hopes to fucking Merlin that she isn’t sick. She  _ can’t _ be sick, she has too much to do, she-

“Granger?” Parkinson is sitting up as well, a hand tentatively hovering over Hermione’s shoulder.

“I’m fine - I just-” Hermione trails off as she sways. She forces herself to stay at least mostly upright.

She will not fall over. She will not be sick. She is  _ perfectly fine and will get up any second to return home for a headache draught _ .

A hand rests on her forehead.

“Merlin, Granger, you’re burning up!”

Hermione wants to protest, but finds herself unable to open her mouth. She withdraws her hands from her eyes to find her vision almost completely clouded by large, dark splotches. She tries to blink them away, but each time she opens her eyes she sees less and less.

She braces herself to stand up. She just needs to get home and have a potion or two.

And then there’s nothing.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione wakes up in a very white room. 

She slowly sits up and groans when she’s struck by an intense pounding in her head. Squinting through the pain, she looks around the room. It’s the Hogwarts Hospital wing. Parkinson must’ve brought her here after she passed out.

It looks just as Hermione remembers from all the times she’d had to visit Harry in their school years. There’s a vase of pink peonies on the bedside. She sits up and reaches for the note sticking up out of it.

_ Get well soon, you damn idiot. _

_ -Pansy❧ _

Hermione can’t help smiling as she stares at every curve of every letter.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

Hermione jumps and looks up. There’s a woman walking towards her in healer’s robes, it’s not Madam Pomfery. She looks vaguely familiar. Her hair is a mousy brown that reaches just below her shoulders.

“Pansy had better start leaving me alone now,” she continues. “I’m the Hogwarts matron, by the way. Hestia Carrow.”

“Er, right,” Hermione says. “So, what is it that happened?”

“You’ve been overworking yourself,” Hestia -she can’t bring herself to think of the woman as  _ Carrow _ \- replies. “You need more sleep and more relaxation and less stress. I suggest you take time off of whatever’s running you ragged like this. And you need to stop taking headache draughts for a while, you’re close to reaching a point where painkillers won’t work for you anymore.”

“I can’t take time off work.”

“You had better.”

“But-”

“No buts.”

Hermione tries to protest more, but can’t when the doors open and Parkinson walks in. She lights up when she sees Hermione, and Hermione smiles right back at her. Hestia says something and leaves the room, but Hermione doesn’t hear her. She’s too caught up in the mesmerizing,  _ glowing _ radiance of relief coming off of Parkinson.

“You’re an idiot,” are the first words out of Parkinson’s mouth.

Hermione grins. “You’re probably the first person to ever call me that.”

“That’s because you’re a genius, you idiot.”

Hermione stifles a laugh in order to ask, “Why’d you bring me here?”

Parkinson raises an eyebrow. “You’d just passed out, Granger, what did you want me to do? Throw you to the pond-lake ducks?”

“What would the ducks do?” Hermione asked amusedly.

“I happen to know that the vast majority of them now have teeth, so quite a lot.”

Hermione shakes her head and asks again, “Why here, though? Why not St Mungo’s?”

Parkinson’s carefree look disappears and she sinks into the chair beside Hermione’s bed. “I, uh, I don’t really get the best reception at St Mungo’s. And besides, everyone knows what I’ve done, if I carried you into the hospital the  _ Prophet _ would go mad printing articles about how I’ve killed you or something.”

Oh. Of course. Hermione had forgotten that outside of the peaceful little bubble that is Hogsmeade, there’s still a lot of turmoil from what happened during the war. There is a reason why Parkinson is the only Slytherin from their year still in the country, after all.

“Oh, I forgot, I’m sorry, Parkinson,” she says quickly.

Parkinson waves her hand dismissively. “It’s not your fault. I did what I did and I’m just fine paying for it.”

“Still, I’m-”

“If you apologize again I’m hexing you.”

Hermione shuts her mouth. Parkinson gives a small smile in response, that lightens her mood exponentially.

“Also Hestia’s my healer, so I trust her not to fuck up,” Parkinson adds. “Don’t tell her I said that, of course.”

“Of course,” Hermione echoes.

“Speaking of Hestia; you need to take a break from work.”

"I can't-"

"Yes you can."

"We're understaffed, they won't pay for anyone else to do my work," Hermione argues.

"Your health is more important," Parkinson insists. "What do you expect to do if you end up passing out at work?"

Hermione groans. "I  _ suppose _ I have a few vacation days saved up."

Parkinson claps her hands together. "Excellent."

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione gets home with a strongly worded letter from Hestia for her to send with her request for time off. She still doesn’t want to take time off, but Parkinson had seen her off with a warning that she would hex her so badly she’d be bedridden and Hermione didn’t put it past her to do just that.

Before sitting down to write out the request, she replaces the dead daffodils with the peonies. She draws out her wand to make sure the new flowers take root in the soil.

Maybe these ones will stay alive.

No, probably not.


	7. Lilacs

It’s late October. Hermione is officially on a three week paid leave from her job and she has no idea what to do. Now that her days are empty and all her friends are working, there’s nothing she can do other than book binding. She  _ could _ work on the next Laurel Bethel book, and she’s tried. She’s already spent hours trying to work on expanding the outline, but has only made minimal progress.

She’s too restless to truly sink into the repetitive mindlessness of book binding.

Maybe she’ll go to the park. Maybe Parkinson will be there. Probably she’ll just be alone, watching the now teeth-having ducks waddle around the lake-pond.

Hermione lets her head fall to the desk and groans into her arms.

She  _ hates _ having nothing to do.

She sits there for a long time. She doesn’t know how long.

There’s a knock at her door.

She eagerly gets to her feet and opens the door. Even if it’s just someone trying to sell her something, it’s  _ something  _ to do.

The door opens and she smiles when she sees Parkinson.

“I thought I’d make sure you aren’t secretly working,” she says in lieu of a greeting.

“Well, I’m not,” Hermione says. “It’s hellish.”

Parkinson quirks an eyebrow. “I’m sure it is, darling. Come on a walk with me.” She holds out her hand and Hermione doesn’t hesitate to take it. She lets herself get pulled out of her house and closes and locks the door with a simple flick of her wand as she and Parkinson walk down the street, hand in hand.

They fall into that comfortable silence that seems to accompany everything they do and Hermione suddenly finds that she’s no longer restless. She’s no longer struggling with the absence of work. She’s just content and happy to walk in silence with Parkinson.

Hogsmeade is beautiful this time of year, though Hermione finds it hard to think of any time of year that it isn’t. About half of the buildings in the village have Halloween decorations out, jack-o-lanterns and living rubber bats and moving skeletons. The trees are all various shades of yellow, red and orange - the leaves fall in satisfying swirls of colour with the gentle blowing of the wind. The air smells of pumpkins and freshly baked pastries.

Hermione and Parkinson find themselves leaning into each other as they walk all around the village, only stopping when they walk by the lake-pond because Hermione  _ has _ to know if the ducks actually have teeth or not. They do and one of them bites her so hard she’s left with three bleeding fingers.

Parkinson holds Hermione’s hand steadily by the wrist and gently traces circles above the wounds with her wand as she mutters an unfamiliar spell. 

Hermione can feel the magic rushing into the open wounds - like a floodgate has opened and magic that is so very  _ Parkinson _ rushes into her hand, up her arm, right to her heart. She feels her heart drum in her chest and watches the skin of her fingers knit together and seal up, leaving her hands unmarred.

Neither of them move for several moments. They just stand and stare at their connected hands, the heels rest against each other and their fingers brush along their wrists. It feels strangely intimate and Hermione doesn’t want to move.

The sight is... truly stunning - Parkinson’s slim pale fingers loosely wrapped up Hermione’s wrist and Hermione’s dark fingers just simply resting upon Parkinson’s wrist. She thinks the sight should be something eternal - captured in oil paints with skilled brush strokes and-

Hermione pulls her hand away because _Merlin’s bloody pants_ _she fancies Parkinson_ and it’s so stupidly obvious.

Parkinson seems unperturbed, but looks disappointed when their hands don’t meet again as they resume walking. Hermione has her hands shoved into her pockets and hopes she can pass off the blush she feels blooming on her face as windchill.

They stop by the gate to the pathway to Hogwarts and stand in silence for a long moment.

Then, Parkinson says, “Come up to Hogwarts with me.”

It seems spontaneous, and Hermione almost agrees in her own bought of spontaneity. She  _ wants _ to agree, she really does, but she doesn’t. She wants to think through her feelings, so she shakes her head and says, “No, I should be getting back home. Maybe some other time.”

Parkinson nods and is gone.

🌻

Hermione spends the rest of the night in a daze. She tries writing again, but decides to step away when she suddenly disregards the outline and has Laurel tenderly holding hands with Octavia as they walk through the greenhouse.

Instead, she sits on her couch with a cup of hot chocolate and decides to think about what exactly it is that she likes about Parkinson. Other than her appearance of course, she's absolutely drop dead stunning and she already dwelled on that enough on that first night at the Hog's Head.

Well, she likes Parkinson's taste in literature, her sense of humour, how they can just be together in silence and it feels so  _ comfortable _ . So natural. So effortless. So  _ perfect _ . She likes how Parkinson used to hide the fact that she cares under layers of false meanness, but is now hiding it under a blasé attitude. 

Hermione likes  _ everything _ about Pansy Parkinson.

And she loves how Parkinson's hand feels in hers.

She has no idea what to do about this, so she does the only thing she can think of and writes to Ginny.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione has lunch with Ginny at the Three Broomsticks the next day. She is regretting writing to her.

"So let me get this straight," Ginny says, "you realized that you fancy Parkinson and you said  _ no _ to the offer to go up to Hogwarts with her?"

Hermione sighs, she drums her fingers against her glass of butterbeer. "Yes, that's what happened."

" _ Why _ ?"

"Ginny, I don't know. I guess I just wanted to think about it more, but when I do I don't come up with anything new or any sort of explanation. She's just... I don't know, I can't even describe her properly."

"Hermione Granger at a loss for words? I can't possibly be surprised by anything anymore," Ginny teases. Hermione rolls her eyes. "But seriously, what makes you think you fancy her?”

She can’t help the heat building in her face, but Hermione tries to ignore it as she says, “Well... she’s just - she’s really amazing and when I look at her it feels like something’s, I don’t know, blooming in me and when she holds my hand it’s like - there aren’t any words to describe it. I don’t know, it’s just so wonderful and comfortable with her.”

Ginny lets out a low whistle and takes a swift sip of her drink. “You’ve got it bad, Mione.”

Hermione folds her arms over the table and groans as she drops her head. “I do, don’t I?” She feels Ginny pat her on the arm. “What should I do about it? Should I do anything? What if I do something and she doesn’t feel the same way and I just mess everything up?”

“Hermione.” Ginny’s voice is firm. Hermione looks up. “From what you’ve told me throughout the last year, I don’t think you’ll mess anything up. You could tell her or you could try flirting some or anything else like that.”

The butterbeer comes into focus in Hermione’s vision, she watches the golden liquid swirl as she mulls over what Ginny has said. She doesn’t think she could tell Parkinson how she feels - that’s too direct, she wouldn’t be able to backpedal or she might come off as overbearing. Flirting sounds like a better plan but, honestly, she doesn’t know the first thing about it. She’d probably end up making a fool of herself.

“I don’t know,” she says. She’s nervously chewing at her lip. “I don’t think I can do either of those.”

Ginny shrugs. “They’re just suggestions. You don’t have to do them, there’s no proper way to go about this sort of thing. But I wouldn’t keep it pent up. I actually want to read the next Laurel Bethel book without her kissing Octavia in a flower garden.”

“They didn’t kiss, they held hands,” Hermione corrects.

“Even worse. Octavia would never.”

Hermione laughs and shakes her head. She doesn’t know if Octavia would  _ never _ hold someone’s hand, but definitely not Laurel’s.

🌻🌻🌻

Parkinson is back at Hermione’s door that night. This time, it’s only seven and she’s offering to buy dinner at the little Chinese restaurant down the road. She’s dressed in a dark red shirt with long sleeves, as usual, and lace around the cuffs, as well as form fitting black trousers.

“Of course,” Hermione says. “Just give me a moment.”

“Of course,” Parkinson replies and Hermione isn’t sure if she’s purposefully echoing her or not.

Hermione closes the door and, while going to get her shoes, is sent mentally reeling.  _ Merlin, Circe and Morgana _ she’s being taken to a  _ nice  _ restaurant for dinner. Her brain is whirring as she laces up her trainers. 

Taking your friend to a nice restaurant is normal, right? A normal thing for friends to do? Yes. Yes, of course it is. Parkinson isn’t doing anything out of the ordinary, it’s just that instead of going to the Three Broomsticks or the Cauldron and Kettle they’re going to Zhulong Garden.

This is a friendly activity and Hermione won’t let herself think otherwise.

She pulls on a jacket and joins Parkinson on the front step.

They walk to the restaurant in silence, their arms brush against each other. Despite Hermione’s worries of things being different, it’s as comfortable as it’s ever been.

Zhulong Garden is an upscale restaurant, but, as Hermione is surprised to find, the customers don’t dress like it. There’s people in t-shirts and jeans at some of the tables and Hermione feels better about her trainers, which she had grown increasingly insecure about as they neared the restaurant.

The place is decked out in reds, oranges and yellows, it’s like a fire in a fireplace - warm and welcoming.

A hostess takes them to a two person table. The tablecloth is red and soft beneath Hermione’s fingertips.

They are handed a drinks menu. It’s long and extensive and Hermione hasn’t even heard of half of the drinks listed. She settles for oolong tea, Parkinson orders huŏqì tea.

The drinks are served and the huŏqì turns out to be a bright orange drink that leaves Parkinson breathing out smoke after ever sip.

“Huŏqì means fire breath,” Parkinson explains as smoke comes floating out of her mouth and nose. “It used to be used during magical coming of age ceremonies around the time of the Western Han dynasty. Now it’s mostly just a nice drink.”

“Really? That’s fascinating,” Hermione says. “How much do you know about Chinese magic?”

Parkinson shrugs. “Not much. My mother taught me a few spells and I found some history in books that I had to get translated because she never bothered teaching me Mandarin. Did you know Zhulong is a god? He’s called the Torch Dragon and creates day and night by blinking. According to those books I found, anyways.”

“I didn’t know that,” Hermione says. “I wish we could have learned more about other cultures in school. We didn’t really have any opportunities for that, did we?”

“No, we didn’t. Minerva’s trying to create a class like that, but, well, we’re just so secluded there aren’t many people who know about a variety of other cultures and are interested in teaching.”

Hermione nods. “I hope she finds someone.”

“Me too,” Parkinson sighs.

They talk idly once their food arrives; about their day, about the books they like, about... pretty much anything. It’s harder to reach that comfortable silence in the noise of Zhulong Garden, but the talking is just as nice.

Once they finish eating and Parkinson has paid, they head for the park.

As usual, it’s empty.

They’re heading towards their bench when Parkinson stops and wordlessly lights her wand.

“Look,” she says softly.

The light from her wand illuminates a flowering lilac bush among the wilting and dying. They’re beautiful and there’s no way they should still be alive.

They stand there for a long time, just staring at the lilacs. 

🌻🌻🌻

Parkinson drops in on Hermione every day and even spends most of sunday with her. That night, they’re back in the park. They’re holding hands and Parkinson is leaning into Hermione.

“Minerva wanted me to ask you something,” she says, breaking the silence. She speaks in a quiet voice, as if speaking too loud will shatter the tranquility.

“And what is it that she wants you to ask?” Hermione replies, her voice just as gentle.

“The Literature and Critical Thinking professor is leaving for some sort of conference in the States for a week and a half. Minerva thinks you might be a good candidate and I agree.”

Hermione pauses to think. “I don’t know, Parkinson. When is she leaving?”

“Tonight,” Parkinson says. “ _ But _ she has these intensely thorough lesson plans.”

“And what did Hestia say about this?”

“She said it’s fine. She doesn’t want you working on your job, Granger. This isn’t your job and should be significantly less stressful than your job.”

Hermione sighs. “Does Minerva have any other possible substitutes?”

“No.”

She pauses. It  _ does _ sound kind of nice. She’s been going mad trying to figure out what to do all day and she must say that a magical Literature and Critical Theory class sounds interesting. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

🌻🌻🌻

The first class on monday is a surprisingly well behaved bunch of fifth year Ravenclaws and Slytherins. The lesson is all about comparing  _ Pride and Prejudice _ with a wizard novel called  _ Effervesce _ .

After that class is the seventh year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, then first year Ravenclaws and Gryffindors.

Hermione stays at the castle for lunch, and sits beside Parkinson at the high table.

“How are you enjoying teaching so far?” Parkinson asks.

“It’s surprisingly enjoyable.” Hermione grabs a slice of bread from a serving plate. It’s weird to be back in Hogwarts. Properly back, not just in the hospital wing. And eating beside Professor Vector. And there’s Neville down on the other side of the table talking to Hestia and Romilda Vane.

“So you love it.”

“Maybe not  _ love _ it, just like it.”

Parkinson nods and smiles at her plate. “That’s good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive thought probably more than i need to about pansy's family, and uhh it doesnt really come into the story outside of this chapter so basically pansy's father is 100% white and entirely english, her mother is half chinese on her father's side. perennial and pansy are both very disconnected from any chinese heritage that they have and anything they know about it is basically just from books


	8. Moonflowers

Hermione and Parkinson are sitting on their bench, grading papers. It’s nice. The sounds of the scratching quills and rustling parchment are calming.

She needs calming. Thoughts have been swirling in her head for a while now. Receiving a letter from Molly about inviting Parkinson over to lunch has only made it worse and now her thoughts are always buzzing with thoughts of  _ Parkinson, Parkinson, Parkinson _ .

_ Get it together, Granger, _ Hermione sternly tells herself. It shouldn’t be this difficult to ask Parkinson to go to a Weasley lunch. They bring over friends all the time. They’ve absolutely done more intimate things than a family dinner, hell  _ this _ is more intimate.

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck _ , intimate is  _ not _ a good word to use right now because all Hermione can think about is being wrapped up in Parkinson’s arms. Hugging her. Holding her. Ki- nope, those thoughts need to stop right now.

Hermione inhales and turns to look at Parkinson. She opens her mouth to ask about the lunch and - oh no, she’s distractingly beautiful. Her profile in the setting sun is probably the most beautiful thing Hermione’s ever seen. The dusty oranges and pinks light up her face, softening her harsh angles and making her glow like some sort of ethereal being.

Papers. 

Hermione looks back at the papers.

She doesn’t ask Parkinson about the Weasley lunch.

🌻🌻🌻

Parkinson is probably the most lovely person Hermione has ever seen. She’s mesmerised by her as they eat lunch in the Great Hall. Something about this - the whole thing - it feels... right. It feels like things should be, like puzzle pieces are being snapped into place.

She thinks Parkinson’s smile, that small, genuine, half smirk of a smile, is wonderful. It makes Hermione feel warm and safe and  _ happy _ .

Part of her wants to just lean in and kiss that beautiful smile, but part of her is content to just enjoy the company. Enjoy the moment. Enjoy the wonderful thing that she has. It’s not that she’s scared that kissing Parkinson would ruin anything, she doesn’t think she is, not at the moment, anyway. She just  _ likes _ what she has.  _ A lot _ .

Besides, kissing Parkinson for the first time in the middle of the Great Hall would be both embarrassing and inappropriate. Harry and Ron would probably have a lot of fun laughing at Hermione about it if the news got back to them. And the news  _ would _ get back to them, likely through Neville, who is sending the occasional interested glance down the staff table.

“You alright, Granger?” Parkinson asks.

“What?” Hermione is startled by the question. “I - yes, I’m alright. Why?”

Parkinson shrugs. “You seem a bit - distracted, I suppose. Is something bothering you?”

Hermione feels herself flush, embarrassed that her preoccupation was noticed. “No - no, nothing’s bothering me.” She smiles at Parkinson. Parkinson nods and smiles back. Hermione is bursting with warmth and adoration and the desire to just continue  _ being _ with Parkinson.

🌻🌻🌻

“Come up to my quarters.”

Hermione looks at her hand, intertwined with Parkinson’s. They’re standing at the gates before the pathway to Hogwarts, they’d just had dinner and Hermione really,  _ really _ wants to say yes. She feels like maybe there are reasons not to go, she feels like she  _ should _ be saying no, but she can’t stop herself from smiling and saying, “Alright.”

Parkinson positively glows as she opens the gate and holds it for Hermione.

They’re quiet as they walk along the path, though Hermione can’t help but notice that with each step they seem to draw themselves closer to one another. She might be imagining it, but she doesn’t think she is.

The walk feels almost romantic. It’s just the two of them. Their shoulders almost brushing. The dusky pink hues of the sky. The falling red, orange and yellow leaves. The gentle, swaying breeze. Hermione can almost believe she was in some sort of heaven. It’s just so nice, so comfortable, so perfect.

Their hands come apart when they reach the castle and Hermione immediately misses the warmth of the other’s hand.

With or without hand holding, the walk to Parkinson’s quarters is as wonderful as every other moment Hermione spends with her. They pass very few people, some of which nod or say quick greetings, but otherwise none of them say anything to them.

Parkinson’s quarters are behind a tapestry of Circe that is more than happy to open right up for them. Through the door behind the tapestry is a room that Hermione finds to be surprisingly cozy.

There are two sofas, one with a dark green blanket draped over the back and two pillows sitting at the end, the other is smaller, looks quite comfortable and is a rich brown colour. There are several potted plants scattered around the room and three full bookshelves. There are very few personal items; no pictures, no visible letters (though Hermione wouldn’t be surprised if Parkinson was the type to burn letters after reading them), nothing.

“Would you like the grand tour?” Parkinson asks in an exaggerated, lofty voice.

Hermione smiles and mimics Parkinson’s faux formality. “That would be lovely, Professor Parkinson.”

Parkinson sweeps her hand across the room and says, “There is the world famous Parkinson library - and here are the elegant and widely well remarked upon settees, both of which serve as superior beds - and of course the extravagant decor.” She walks to one of two doors and opens it. Her expression slips into a much more genuine one as she says, “And through here, is my greenhouse.”

Hermione steps into the room and is amazed to see that what had once clearly been a bedroom had been transformed into a fully fledged greenhouse with heating charms, soils of all kinds, lots of sunlight - everything a plant needs.

The flowers -as that appears to be all Parkinson plants- are in full bloom despite it being late October and they’re all probably the most beautiful flowers Hermione has ever seen.

“Parkinson, this is wonderful,” she says earnestly. “I didn’t know you garden!”

Parkinson looks a bit embarrassed and begins twiddling her thumbs. “Yes, well, I’ve loved flowers for about as long as I can remember, so it only made sense to pursue gardening in some capacity.”

“Does Neville know about this?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t want him to start blithering on about mimbulus mimbletonia and, I’m afraid, he simply is not a flower man. The conversation would start and end with ‘so dirt’s neat.’”

Hermione can’t help smiling. “You think dirt’s neat?”

“Yes, of course.”

Hermione’s smile splits into a grin. She can’t believe that  _ Pansy Parkinson _ thinks  _ dirt _ is  _ neat _ . She can’t believe  _ she  _ gets to know this about her! She absolutely loves this absurd woman.

She stops. 

Does she  _ love _ Parkinson?

Maybe. Maybe not. But Hermione really can’t bring herself to care at this moment. She knows she loves being with Parkinson and that’s all the matters.

She pulls her into a tight embrace. Parkinson seems startled, but recovers quickly and hugs back.

They pull back from each other. They’re both grinning stupidly, even as Parkinson offers to give Hermione some gardening tips.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione doesn’t bring up Molly’s invitation to the Weasley lunch to Parkinson. This is why she’s glad that Ginny, not Molly, is the first person she sees when she enters the Burrow.

This relief, however, soon fades when Ginny smirks and says, “So where’s Parkinson?”

“Er,” Hermione says, “busy.”

“Are you sure you asked her and didn’t just do that thing you always do?”

“I don’t know what  _ thing  _ you’re talking about,” Hermione replies, shoving her hands in her pockets.

Ginny waves her hand. “Oh, you know, you don’t let yourself go beyond what you already have.”

“I haven’t got a single idea what you’re talking about. I’m happy with what I have-”

“Mione, you li-”

“Hermione!” Molly exclaims as she enters the room. She is soon enveloping Hermione in a tight hug and stating that she’s missed her and it’s been too long since she’s visited.

The lunch is a lot busier than the last several times Hermione has managed to attend - everyone with the exception of Percy is there.

“As I was saying,” Ginny says after the meal, when everyone starts dispersing around the house and garden, “you let yourself stay at ‘happy’ when you could easily have more.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Hermione replies. She’s in the flower garden, the closest people are Harry, Ron and Molly over by the pumpkins. “I couldn’t be better.”

“Hermione, you and I both know - okay maybe you don’t actually know, but  _ I _ know that things could be better for you. And I think I have a few ideas about how you could get that.”

“Alright. Enlighten me.”

“Kiss Parkinson and see where it goes,” she says very matter of factly.

Hermione feels herself flushing violently and her stare returns to the flowers in front of her. She says, “Why would I want to do that?” in a would-be casual voice.

“If I tell you that you’ve been staring at pansies for the past fifteen minutes would that help in any way to prove my point?”

Oh  _ Merlin’s pants _ she’s been staring at  _ pansies _ . She looks away, sees Ginny smirking, and looks over to the valerian.

“What’s your, er, other idea?” Hermione asks, trying to think of anything to change the subject. She hopes whatever the other idea is is less embarrassing.

“Quit your job,” Ginny says as casually as if she’s suggesting that Hermione drink butterbeer.

“I -  _ what _ ?  _ Why _ would I do that?”

Ginny shrugs. “You seem happier when you don’t have to work. Really, it doesn’t seem like you like the job much - I’m  _ not _ saying you don’t care about the work, I just don’t think you enjoy it. Which, I admit, might be wrong, but either way your bosses clearly don’t give a shit about you.”

“I love my job, Ginny,” Hermione insists. “I’m not quitting just because my bosses don’t care.”

“Alright, it was just a suggestion. You should stand up for yourself some time, though. Tell them to put more money in your department.”

Ginny leaves.

🌻🌻🌻

Ginny’s words - all of her words won’t leave Hermione’s mind for the next few days. Outside of her time spent teaching, she’s uncharacteristically scatterbrained and it really doesn’t help that she and Parkinson seem to be talking more and more every day. Much of their time is still that comfortable silence where they just enjoy each other’s company, but there’s also a lot of talking. Hermione loves it, loves hearing about Parkinson - what she likes, what she’s done, she just  _ loves _ it. But it also gives her far too many opportunities to embarrass herself.

It also doesn’t help that they’ve begun spending some of their time in Parkinson’s quarters. They garden together, or read together, or grade their papers together. They seem to do everything together now unless Hermione is visiting her friends.

She stops by Luna and Hannah’s one day after her last class of the day to talk to them about writing. She’s been feeling too distracted to get any work done on her next Laurel Bethel book and they both have some experience writing - although Luna’s is for newspapers and Hannah’s cooking and picture books.

“Maybe you should kiss Parkinson,” Hannah says and Hermione seriously can’t tell if she’s joking or not.

“How would that help anything!” Hermione demands, though she already knows the answer.

“She’s what’s been distracting you,” Luna supplies. “If you kiss her you won’t be thinking about wanting to kiss her all the time and you’ll stop projecting on Laurel and Octavia.”

It makes sense, but Hermione knows she won’t follow the advice.

🌻🌻🌻

One day, as she and Parkinson grade homework in the staff room, Hermione finds herself watching Parkinson’s mouth. She soundlessly moves her lips along with every word she reads and every note she writes.

She catches herself and looks away, but not before Parkinson looks up and quirks an eyebrow at her.

Before Hermione can stop herself, she’s saying, “I think I want to quit my job.”

Parkinson’s eyes widen in surprise. “Oh. How long have you thought that?”

“Er.” Honestly, Hermione is just as taken aback by the statement as Parkinson, possibly even more so. She blinks. “I’m... not sure. Ginny brought it up a few days ago and I guess... it’s just kind of stuck with me.”

Parkinson turns her head, clearly thinking about it. “I think you should too.”

“Really?”

“Yes. If you want to quit that means there must be something horribly wrong. I never thought that the creator of the Society for the Protection of Elfish Welfare would quit her job that entails securing their rights. Then again, it’s not like you can adequately do that within the Ministry, can you?”

Hermione shakes her head. “No, not really.”

“And they’ve worked you almost to death. It’s for the best really, they don’t deserve you.” 

Hermione is eternally grateful that Parkinson has turned back to her work so she can’t see her smiling to herself. 

_ They don’t deserve you _ .

The words feel oddly personal somehow. Maybe it’s the way she said them or maybe Hermione’s reading too far into a simple phrase.

🌻🌻🌻

“Then quit,” Harry says.

He’s looking better, apparently he’s been transferred somewhere with better hours. That’s good.

“But what if that’s a mistake?” Hermione says, anxiously drumming her fingers against the table she, Ron and Harry are eating at.

“Won’t know ‘til you try it,” Ron says through a mouthful of food.

Harry nods his agreement, but does Hermione the liberty of coming up with a more comforting response. “If you want to leave it won’t be a mistake. And, as your personal healer-”

“I don’t remember making you my personal healer,” Hermione interrupts.

“ _ As your personal healer _ ,” Harry repeats, “I think quitting would be a good choice. You’re looking much happier and healthier since your leave.”

Hermione sighs. “Maybe you’re right.”

“You don’t have to make a decision right now, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” She begins to chew on the tip of her thumb. 

She knows she doesn’t need to know what she’s going to do right now, she really does, but she can’t help but feeling like there’s some sort of ticking bomb preparing to go off and do  _ something _ if she doesn’t make a decision soon.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione practically falls out of her bed.

Thoughts of her dream fly through her head in a flurry of colour and feeling. It hadn’t been particularly explicit or anything, really it had been very innocent, but Hermione still feels as if she’s burning up all the same.

It was just her and Parkinson, sitting in a garden of moonflowers. They weaved the flowers together into delicate crowns that they placed on each other’s heads. As Hermione had reached up to rest the crown on Parkinson’s head, she had grabbed her and pulled her in for a kiss. 

Hermione had dropped the flower crown and leaned into it. She pushed her hands into Parkinson’s, their fingers interlocked and then Hermione had woken.

She sits on the floor for a while, just thinking about the dream, both wishing it hadn’t happened and longing for it to continue.

Falling asleep for the night seems out of the question, it’s too late to get any proper amount of sleep in even if she wouldn’t have to make time to calm her furiously beating heart. Hermione gets up and checks on her peonies and the plumerias she’s only just barely managed to save.

When she opens the door in the morning, a pot of moonflowers is waiting for her.


	9. Sunflowers

“Happy Halloween, darling,” Parkinson says as she throws a black scarf around Hermione’s shoulders. She’s wearing high collared robes with an intricate spider web design with draping, bell-cut sleeves.

“Those are, er, nice robes,” Hermione says.

Parkinson smirks. “Thank you, Granger. I made it myself.”

“You can sew?” Hermione presses her hands together excitedly.

“Well, I can  _ modify  _ clothes.”

“That’s still impressive,” Hermione insists. “It looks really good!”

Parkinson pulls a hand up to frame her face. “Of course it looks good, I made it.”

Hermione smiles and shakes her head. They split up when they reach Hermione’s classroom.

🌻🌻🌻

After the day’s lessons are complete, Hermione sits with Parkinson in her quarters. They’re grading in silence, as usual. They’re sitting on the sofa in the sitting room, Parkinson is leaning on Hermione, her head on her shoulder and Hermione isn’t quite sure how to handle it. 

She can’t focus, she’s just too caught up in the sensation of Parkinson’s hair -now reaching past her shoulders- falling around her shoulder, the movement of her arms, every way her body moves with each inhale and exhale.

It's nice.

It's more than nice, it's wonderful.

Hermione hardly cares that she's been staring at the same essay on Emily Dickinson for the sixth years pick-a-muggle-poet paper. Parkinson shifts and throws her legs across Hermione’s lap. She leans back so her head is on the arm rest, she’s staring at Hermione, who only notices that she’s staring back with an undoubtedly goofy smile when Parkinson smirks and rolls up the parchment she’s working on.

“Like the view, dear?” she drawls.

Hermione shoves Parkinson’s leg off of her and she laughs.

🌻🌻🌻

At the Halloween Feast, Hermione has a stroke of inspiration and becomes jittery and impatient. All throughout her conversation with Neville she’s bouncing her fork, she can hardly concentrate when Minerva is speaking to her and every word Parkinson says seems to spark even more ideas.

“Granger, are you alright?” Parkinson asks when they’re walking across the grounds. “You’ve been... flighty?”

“What?” Hermione says. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit distracted.”

“Just don’t go walking into any trees on your way home.” Parkinson opens the gate. “I’d offer to let you stay in my quarters, but I’m currently sleeping on a settee.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “You’d invite me to stay at yours?”

Parkinson crosses her arms. “It’s eleven o’clock on Halloween. I know it’s not  _ incredibly _ late but you never know when a candy-fueled child might attack.”

“Yes, I’m sure a rabid eight year old might go rampaging through Hogsmeade at an hour before midnight.”

“Exactly. Goodnight, Granger.”

“Night, Parkinson.”

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione writes a lot that night. She more than doubles the size of her rough draft, which isn’t saying a whole lot since she hasn’t done much writing recently, but she feels good about it. Wonderful, in fact.

Her dreams are filled with flowers and soft lips and whispers that she’s unable to remember upon waking.

It turns out that she's slept much later than she has in a very long time. For a split second she panics, worried that she's late for her classes, but then she remembers that it's saturday and she relaxes just in time to be startled to a sitting position by a knock at her door.

She rolls out of her bed and goes through minimal effort to make herself look presentable. Hermione trudges into her sitting room and opens the door.

It's Parkinson.

Of course it's Parkinson.

"Hermione Granger getting out of bed at eleven?" she drawls. " _ Someone _ alert the Prophet."

She isn't quite sure how to respond, but luckily she doesn't have to.

"So you know how you want to quit your job?"

"I said I  _ might _ want to quit," Hermione corrects. "And I don't even know if I still do."

Parkinson gives her a completely indecipherable look. "You want to quit your job," she insists. "Good news for you, Littles - that’s the Literature and Critical Thinking professor- left for a job interview for the same job at some American school. After this year there'll be a space open for a new professor..."

Hermione takes the news like being hit by the Hogwarts Express. She has no idea what to do. One of two barriers keeping her from leaving her job is that she wouldn't know what to do next, but here Parkinson is, presenting her with a job that she already knows she enjoys. The pros of leaving vastly outweigh the cons but she still, somehow, isn't able to convince herself that it would be a good idea.

She used to love her job so much, but thinking about it now only makes her stressed and brings on the beginnings of a migraine. But leaving it feels almost wrong in a way. She can't explain why or how but it feels  _ wrong _ .

"You don't have to make a decision right now," Parkinson says as if she can see right into Hermione's mind. "It's a big decision and I know you're a bit, er, passionate about some parts of your current job. Either way, we can work out what you'll be doing together."

Hermione is suddenly overwhelmed with how much she  _ loves _ Parkinson. And yes, it’s definitely love. She loves Pansy Parkinson so much.

“I - yeah,” Hermione says. “Alright. I’ll think about it.”

Parkinson smirks in a self satisfied sort of way. “Wonderful. Will you join me for lunch?”

“Of course,” Hermione replies, then looks down at her pajama clad body. “Er, I should probably change.”

“Nonsense, darling,” Parkinson waves her hand dismissively. “I brought food. We can eat here or in the park or anywhere else. No need to change.”

“No, I think I’ll change.” Hermione can’t help smiling a bit. “Lunch in the park sounds lovely. Come in, I’ll be quick.”

Hermione steps aside and closes the door behind Parkinson, who strides in like she owns the place and relaxes on the couch. “Take your time,” she says.

Hermione smiles and repeats that she won’t take long before slipping into her room. She promptly begins to panic about what she should wear. But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? It’s just Parkinson, but also... it’s  _ Parkinson _ . 

For some reason, having Parkinson right on the other side of the door is making her overthink this. She  _ never _ puts this much thought or worry into what she should wear and she hasn’t even opened her dresser drawers yet.

Hermione forces herself to stop. Close her eyes. Take a deep breath. 

She opens her eyes and pulls open her dresser. She swiftly changes into a knit sweater and jeans before she can start overthinking again. Unfortunately, in her rush and low level panic, she accidentally vanishes her pajamas. Her very nice, very comfortable pajamas.

Parkinson is lounging on the couch when Hermione returns to the sitting room, looking so relaxed and effortlessly beautiful in her deep red robes. She gets to her feet when she spots Hermione and wraps an arm around her shoulders.

“You look wonderful, dear,” she says, completely unprovoked. Hermione feels her face heat up and has to look over to her moonflowers and peonies. “You always look wonderful. Now, to the park?”

Hermione nods. “To the park.”

They exit Hermione’s house and slowly stroll to the park. They sit on their bench and Parkinson pulls two fancy to go boxes from one of her robe pockets. It’s from Zhulong Garden.

Parkinson has gotten Hermione the dish Parkinson got last time and it’s absolutely delicious.

Once they’re done eating, Parkinson vanishes the takeaway boxes with a flick of her wand.

“That was delicious,” Hermione says earnestly. “It was a good choice.”

Parkinson smirks. “Yes, my taste is impeccable.”

They lapse into their usual comfortable silence. Eventually, they end up leaning against each other; Parkinson’s head on Hermione’s as the teethed ducks waddle around the lake-pond. The late-morning air slowly picks up into a gentle afternoon breeze and Hermione just feels so content.

“About that job offer,” Hermione says. Parkinson sits up and looks towards Hermione. “It sounds great, but I don’t know how I feel about leaving my current job.”

“What’s stopping you?” Parkinson asks.

“Well, the department’s already understaffed and underfunded. And no one else really cares about house elves and even though they stopped listening to me about that a while ago I could still do  _ something _ to help them and no one’s listened to me about the banshees...”

Parkinson pauses, then says, “Well, that last one sounds like a reason to leave, honestly. And I don’t really know what to say about the understaffing problem except that you staying there won’t help with that.”

“But what if I leave and no one else gets hired in my place?” Hermione says. “They’ll be even more understaffed.”

“Well, Granger, there comes a time when you need to think about what will make you happy. If you get caught up on all these what ifs and let them keep you from doing something you want to do, you’ll only end up regretting it. And, hey, we could start some sort of campaign - write a shit ton of letters or raise money for the department. Then you can quit and know that you’re helping your department.”

“I suppose that makes sense...” Hermione says slowly. “But what about the banshees and house elves?”

“You had that committee in school, didn’t you? We could start something like that, maybe expand it to more creatures.”

Hermione can’t help smiling just a little bit. It sounds nice, more than nice. And the way Parkinson is saying  _ we _ and not  _ you _ make her heart flutter and something in her stomach bloom.

“I suppose... we could do that,” she says and draws her legs up to her chest. “It does sound nice. It’s just - well, I always thought I would have a job doing something important at the Ministry - that I’ll change things for the better.”

Parkinson pulls Hermione’s hand into hers and says, “You don’t need to work at the Ministry to do something important, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And I never thought I’d be a teacher and yet, here I am. Our original plans don’t always work out and that’s not a bad thing.”

“Well, I’ll definitely keep thinking about it,” Hermione says.

🌻🌻🌻

The more Hermione thinks about it, the more appealing quitting sounds. Something about it still feels  _ wrong _ , but something also feels wrong about not leaving. No matter what she does, something is going to feel wrong and despite this, she feels as if she  _ can’t _ leave. 

It’s probably stupid.

She knows it’s stupid.

So instead of thinking about it anymore she’s gone back to writing. She gets a lot of writing done when she isn’t at Hogwarts or with Parkinson.

🌻🌻🌻

“You should go for it,” Ron says one day over dinner. “You’ll have more time and that job’s doing you in.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, “you’ve been looking a lot better, you know. The Ministry just isn’t good for you.”

Hermione doesn’t mention that Harry looks like he’s been trampled by a hippogriff because she knows Ron probably tells him often enough. “You’re probably right,” she sighs. “I guess I’m just having trouble wrapping my head around it. It seems like I should be working for the Ministry, you know. It just... feels like what I have to be doing.”

“I get that,” Harry says. “I had trouble leaving the aurors for the same reason. Ultimately, you’ve just got to think about what you want and what you think will make you happy and be the best for you.”

“Right,” she stares into her cup and changes the subject.

🌻🌻🌻

On Hermione’s last day of teaching, Parkinson presents her with a sunflower. They’re walking to the front gates and Parkinson says, “It seems like the time for a present - a sort of farewell, if you will.”

Hermione takes the flower, looking at her friend with amusement. “A farewell?”

“Of a sort.”

“Well, thank you, Parkinson.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Neither of them talks again until they’re in Hogsmeade.

“There’s a charity event happening at the end of the month,” Hermione says. “I, er, help with it every other year, so I get a plus one. I was wondering if you would like to go with me?”

“Is this Potter’s charity ball for war orphans?” Parkinson asks.

“Well, it’s not  _ really _ Harry’s, he’s just a really big supporter of it and has to participate with it. And it’s not really a ball, it’s more like a gathering with music and food and some dancing.”

“So it’s Potter’s charity ball.”

“Do you want to go or not?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely. I want to know if Weasley has gotten any new dress robes since fourth year.”

“If I were you, I’d be more interested in seeing what Luna decides to wear,” Hermione replies.

“Oh, that’s right, Lovegood would be going to these things,” Parkinson says with a smirk. “I have always thought that her fashion taste was quite entertaining.”

“That is certainly one way to describe her outfits.”

“I simply adore those radish earrings.”

Hermione genuinely can’t tell if Parkinson is joking or not.

“And those pink glasses she wore in school?”

“She still wears those,” Hermione informs her.

“Oh, goody!” Parkinson looks positively elated. It’s really quite cute. They stop in front of Hermione’s house. “We’ll have to go robe shopping. If we’ll be arriving together, we must coordinate and we’ve already established that my taste is exquisite.”

“I believe impeccable was the word used,” Hermione corrects. “Anyways, weren’t you the person just saying that she loves Luna Lovegood’s radish earrings and spectrespecs?”

“I’m a woman of many tastes, Granger. I can enjoy high fashion and fashion that makes one look as if they’re an owl that’s just crawled out of the trash bin at the same time.”

Hermione laughs. “Alright, Parkinson. I’ll see you around.”

“See you.”

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione’s first day back at work is bad enough to classify as horrible. She finds out that they’ve used her absence to push forward everything she’s disputed and that they’ve completely ruined the relationship she’s built up with the goblins, centaurs  _ and _ banshees. She nearly hexes three separate people and almost hits the idiot who ruined the connection with the goblins.

And then she quits.

The final straw is when Adam Claes tells her that her job is pointless and only good for “keeping the goblins in check.” Hermione decides that she just can’t take it anymore and quits then and there.

“Fucking finally,” Ginny says when Hermione tells her the news over lunch.

" _ No _ , it's  _ horrible _ ," Hermione moans, her head on the table. "I left out of nowhere and at such a bad time."

"Mione, listen. You don't have to fix everything. Not everything is on you. You weren't happy there and they didn't appreciate you, leaving was the right thing to do for you."

Hermione sighs and lifts her head. "I guess... I still feel bad about it, though.”

“Well, there’s no going back,” Ginny says. “Just embrace the decision and find out what you want to do. Maybe take some time for yourself. You could spend time with Parkinson.”

Hermione doesn’t even bother to ask why she suggested that - it’s exactly what she wants to do, anyway and she knows Ginny knows that. There’s no reason to dispute it that isn’t purely performative.

“Maybe,” she sighs.


	10. Viscarias

They’re in Fiona Rosemary’s Formal Robes when Hermione tells Parkinson that she’s quit her job. Parkinson is unexpectedly calm about it all - she just smiles knowingly and says, “Good, I’m glad.”

Hermione isn’t entirely sure what she had been expecting, but this response does seem very much like Parkinson.

“The Ministry wasn’t good for you,” Parkinson continues. “And I have a personal dislike for them, so even better.”

“Even better how?” Hermione asks as Parkinson pulls out some elegant rose coloured dress robes and holds them up to Hermione before shaking her head and putting them back up.

“Because I was seriously thinking that I might have had to go to your office if you went back to the hours you had you before.”

“Oh were you?” Hermione raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, and I would rather die than go anywhere near the Ministry, so that is a very high compliment.”

“And I take it as such - now, since you’re the expert here, enlighten me as to what I should be looking for.”

Parkinson smiles. “Well, you look very good in warm colours - especially reds, oranges and yellows. But pink and green also works. I would steer clear of blues and most pale colours.”

“Good to know. And what are  _ your  _ colours?”

“Thinking of buying something for me?” Parkinson smirks. “It’s green, dark red and black, of course.”

“I don’t know, I’ve seen you in beige and I think you look pretty nice in it.”

“That’s a lie, I have never worn beige in my life.”

Something about that makes Hermione want to lean over and kiss Parkinson, but instead she turns towards the robes and begins shifting through them.

🌻🌻🌻

Parkinson ends up picking out yellow robes for Hermione and black with accents of yellow for herself. Hermione really can’t deny that Parkinson has an eye for fashion. Not that she would want to deny it.

Hermione gets quite a lot of writing done. It’s probably more writing than she’s managed in over a year. She’s more invigorated, more inspired, more energized than she’s been for a long time.

She hates to admit it, but the Ministry really was bad for her. It’s a wonder what one week of knowledge that she’ll never have to return to that job has done for her. She, of course, does not tell anyone exactly how much better she feels, especially not Ginny, because then it would just become a lot of ‘I told you so’s. And they  _ did  _ tell her.

“You look happy,” Luna says when she visits her and Hannah’s cottage.

“I am,” Hermione says, unable to stop the grin spreading across her face.

Luna grabs her hands and smiles back. “I’m glad. You deserve it.” She pulls Hermione into a hug and lets go after the perfect amount of time to lead them back to the sitting room. “How’s Parkinson?”

Hermione isn’t even surprised by the question. “She’s alright.”

“Good. Hannah still thinks you should try kissing her.”

Hermione flushes. “ _ What _ ? How am I supposed to do that? Just out of nowhere? What if she doesn’t want to? What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if it ruins everything?”

“It won’t ruin anything,” Luna insists.

“But how do you know that?”

“Sometimes people just know things.”

“What if I know she’ll reject me?”

Luna turns her head fractionally to the side. “But you don’t know that. Your heart and your mind are confused and contradicting one another at the moment. I can tell that somewhere in you, you know that Pansy will accept you and love you, but you aren’t letting yourself think that. You should let yourself believe it. I find that whatever we feel the deepest within ourselves is what we can trust and I feel that Parkinson loves you.”

Hermione has trouble arguing with her. Not because she’s right, but because she has this bizarre sort of logic that makes sense, but also  _ really  _ doesn’t.

“You haven’t even seen her recently.”

“No, but I know her through you.”

And that one sentence sticks with Hermione for days.  _ I know her through you _ . She doesn’t know why, but something resonates with her and fills her with an intense mix of emotions. Anxiety and hope and all other things that swirl together into something completely incomprehensible.

🌻🌻🌻

“Have you thought about it?”

Hermione turns her head to look at Parkinson. She looks so beautiful; her hair gently blowing in the wind, her robes a deep forest green, the orange and yellow backdrop of the dying trees in the park.

“Thought about what?” she asks.

Parkinson turns her head to face Hermione as well. “The job offer, Granger.”

“Oh.” Hermione looks back to the lake-pond. “A bit. It  _ does  _ seem nice and I did enjoy teaching. I don’t really know what else I could do.”

“Well, if you’re unsure, we can always look into other options. There’s more out there than just Ministry jobs, you know.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“You should be happy with what you do. If you don’t want to teach, don’t teach.”

“Oh, but I  _ do _ want to teach,” Hermione says.

“Then you can teach. But if you’re unsure, I’m more than happy to help you look for other options.”

Hermione leans her head onto Parkinson’s shoulder. “Alright, I’ll let you know.”

“You had better.”

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione sends off the first draft of her next Laurel Bethel book to some readers. Hannah and Luna, of course, were the first to read it and they're very positive about it. She feels great, not just about the book, but in general. She feels better than she has in a long time.

🌻🌻🌻

Parkinson shows up to Hermione’s house on the night of the charity ball with a bouquet of beautiful blue and pink flowers. She says they’re viscarias and, if she were anyone other than Parkinson, she would be blushing furiously as she explains that it is simply polite to bring flowers to the person who has invited you to a ball. 

Hermione, however, is not Parkinson, so she  _ does _ end up with flushed cheeks as she listens to Parkinson’s very rehearsed-sounding explanation. She takes the flowers, conjures a vase and places the bouquet in it before returning to Parkinson at her doorstep.

“So where is this ball?” Parkinson asks.

“Not far,” Hermione answers and takes Parkinson’s hand and apparates.

They land in front of a large, secluded building brimming with light and noise - gentle but lively music, the buzz of chatter. It’s surrounded by trees and there are floating candles illuminating the grounds.

“Hmm,” Parkinson says thoughtfully as they make their way up the path to the doors. “Nice.”

“Well, I’m glad the venue is up to your standards, Parkinson.”

“Of course, it’s very important that it must fit my exact taste, darling. Otherwise I might just have to go back to Hogwarts and leave you dateless.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Hermione says dryly.

Parkinson’s lips quirk and she loops her arm through Hermione’s.

The interior of the building is even more extravagant than the outside. It’s high ceilinged, bedecked with gold, filled with flowers and lit by enchanted candles floating above their heads. There are instruments playing gentle melodies all on their own up on the stage.

“We should talk to Harry and Ron before they leave,” Hermione says.

“Doesn’t Potter have a speech to give?”

“Yes, he leaves right after giving it.”

“Ah, sensible,” Parkinson says with a slight nod.

Harry and Ron are easy enough to find, they always linger about in the front by the stage near the table where people go to make donations.

The both of them are smiling at Hermione in a very ‘ _ I see you brought someone you very much love and you should go for it _ ’ kind of way.

“Nice robes,” Parkinson says to Ron, who thanks her until she continues to say, “Much better than those frilly things.”

Ron goes red in the ears and mumbles out something that Hermione doesn’t quite catch but has Parkinson smirking and Harry patting him on the shoulder.

At first, Hermione and Parkinson strole around the edges of the ballroom, occasionally stopping to talk to someone they know.

Parkinson knows a lot about flowers. She’s able to identify them in an instant and, surprisingly, knows the symbolism behind each of them.

They stop in front of a cluster of lavender.

“I assume you can recognize lavender,” Parkinson says.

“Of course,” Hermione replies. “What do they mean?”

Parkinson is gently adjusting the flowers positions, hands quick and gentle and lithe. “Devotion,” she answers. She straightens her back and opens her mouth as if about to say something else, but is interrupted by Luna and Hannah walking over to them.

“Admiring the flowers?” Hannah asks.

“They’re beautiful flowers,” Hermione replies simply.

“Nice robes, Lovegood,” Parkinson says, seemingly sincerely.

Luna’s outfit  _ is _ rather nice, though just as eccentric as her usual wear. She’s dressed in light blue robes that frill around the hems. She’s wearing about five different necklaces, all with a variety of pendants and random small items tied to them. She has a pair of large bottle corks dangling from her ears and her hair is pulled back into a loosely braided with twigs and flowers.

Luna beams. “Thank you, Pansy. You look wonderful tonight.”

“And I was only ‘very dashing?’” Hannah says playfully.

“You’re always an astounding beauty, moon flower.”

Hannah throws an arm around Luna’s shoulders and grins. “As do you, my love.” She turns to Hermione. “How’s the unemp-”

The music suddenly stops and with it comes the halt in chatter and Harry anxiously clearing his throat up on the stage. Despite having to do this sort of thing for many years now, he’s still obviously nervous and uncomfortable. He fidgets with the cuffs of his robes and pulls at his hair as he talks, but he never stumbles over his words.

His speech is nothing spectacular or extraordinary - it’s almost exactly the same thing as it’s been for every other charity event about moving forward and striving to make the world better. There’s nothing special about it, but it always draws in a lot of money from donors.

As usual, the minute Harry has finished talking, he grabs Ron and disapparates before the surge of people heading towards the stage can reach either of them.

“So how’s being unemployed treating you, Hermione?” Hannah asks.

Hermione shrugs. “It’s not nearly as terrible as I imagined. I’m keeping busy.”

“Good! You needed some time off.”

“Yes,” Luna agrees. “You’re looking livelier by the day. It’s almost as if a bagnack stole all your happiness and is just now returning it, but that’s not likely. There are hardly any nargles flying around your head and bagnacks like nargles quite a lot. You know, Pansy, you have got quite a few narges floating about.”

Parkinson doesn’t seem quite sure of how she should respond, but manages to say, “Well, I’ll certainly be taking care of them soon.”

Hannah and Luna soon leave to talk to Susan Bones over by the donations table.

Once alone, Parkinson takes a half step back and flicks her wand in an elegant circle. A bouquet of beautiful pink flowers sprouts from its tip. She plucks them from her wand and presents them to Hermione.

They’re viscarias again - pink ones.

“They’re lovely.”

Parkinson pulls a single flower from the bouquet, idly twists the long, slender stem, then tucks it behind Hermione’s ear. Her mouth twitches as if she wants to say something, but she doesn’t.

She takes Hermione’s free hand, lacing their fingers together. Her left hand rests on Hermione’s waist.

And then they’re dancing and it’s wonderful. It’s so sweet and slow and Hermione doesn’t know how she isn’t shaking. She’s sure she’s flushing an embarrassing amount. She’s so close - she can see all the details of Parkinson’s face. The freckles on her nose. The kaleidoscope of browns in her eyes.

She’s utterly and completely beautiful.

And the next thing Hermione knows, her lips are on Parkinson’s and they’re kissing.

For a moment it’s wonderful - amazing - spectacular - everything Hermione could have imagined and more. And then she’s pushing herself away.

She’s hardly aware of the apology clumsily falling from her mouth before she disapparates.


	11. Pansies

Hermione is horrified, mortified, completely and utterly embarrassed.

 _How_ could she have just done that? Just out of the blue? No warning, no nothing! She just went in for it and ruined the friendship she’s built with Parkinson, she’s sure of it. She doesn’t even know if Parkinson likes women or not and she’s just _kissed her_.

Harry and Ron take the sudden flat invasion and proceeding borderline incoherent babbling well, or about as well as anyone can. They bring her some tea, listen to her talk and reassure her that she hasn’t completely ruined everything with Parkinson, and then they offer her the spare room for as long as she needs it and she finds herself passing out almost immediately.

Her sleep is erratic and unsatisfying. She wakes up a few times throughout the night and when she finally rises in the morning, she’s almost feeling worse than the previous night, but she gets up and walks to the kitchen nonetheless.

Ron is cooking breakfast, he’s really the only one out of the three of them that both can and enjoys cooking.

“How are you?” Harry asks as Hermione sits at the table.

“Fine,” she says. Harry gives her a very pointed look. “Alright, Merlin, I feel awful. I crossed a line with Parkinson last night and she just - she means so much to me and I don’t want to lose her because of a stupid moment where I just completely forgot about any sort of self control.”

Harry sighs. “Hermione, I _really_ don’t think it’s nearly as bad as you think it is. And if Parkinson, inexplicably, for some reason, does not forgive you then you don’t deserve her. It was an honest mistake and she’ll understand that.”

“You don’t really know that, though.”

“Mione,” Ron groans, “come on, you’ve been friends for over a year and you seem really close. It’ll be fine.”

“But what if it isn’t,” Hermione says.

“Seriously, Mione, don’t think about it,” Harry says. “If she suddenly hates you now you can come to us and tell us how wrong we were and you can bother us as much as you want for as long as you want even while we’re working _and_ we won’t go to the next ten quidditch games. That’s how serious I am about Parkinson at the very least forgiving you.”

That helps a little bit, but also really doesn’t.

Harry has to leave not long after that, and then Ron does too. They tell Hermione that she can stay at their place if she wants, but she doesn’t, so she apparates back home and hopes that Parkinson won’t be making a surprise appearance there.

In a moment of paranoia, she checks to make sure her whole house is free of unfairly attractive women, then changes clothes before leaving, locking the door with about three different spells and starts walking to the Hog’s Head.

She only has one drink before heading back to her house.

Ginny is waiting for her when she gets there.

“Did Ron tell you what happened?” Hermione asks with a sigh.

“No - well, yes, but I also saw it,” she says. “You know, Parkinson looked kind of like she was enjoying it and after you left-”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Hermione unlocks the door and invites Ginny in. She makes herself a cup of coffee and gets Ginny a glass of water.

“How’s the book coming?” Ginny asks after a long moment of silence where they both sat on the couch, sipping their drinks.

Hermione is relieved at the change of subject. “Good,” she says. “I should be getting feedback back soon.”

“That’s good!”

They’re quiet for a while. Ginny obviously wants to talk to her about Parkinson, but she doesn’t. Hermione is glad she doesn’t, but she wishes she would find something else to talk about. She wishes _she_ could think of anything else to talk about herself, but the harder she tries to come up with something, the more prominent the memory of the kiss becomes.

She stares into her cup, watching the dark liquid swirl and swirl and swirl.

She takes a sip and Ginny says, “It’s not good to ignore things.”

“I’m aware,” Hermione replies. Of course she knows this, but maybe this one particular thing can be fixed by ignoring it. She also knows that this is bullshit, but she’s finding herself unable to really acknowledge anything more than she already has. Which means ignoring it from then on.

“Are you?”

“I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“ _Exactly_!” Ginny exclaims frustratedly. “That’s exactly it! You’re ignoring it, it’s not good for you!”

Hermione groans. “I’m well aware, Ginny. I just - I _can’t_ think about it right now.”

Ginny sighs. “I know, sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled. Take your time, as long as you’re time isn’t too long. Once it hits the three week mark and you haven’t done anything about it I _will_ drag you to Parkinson’s doorstep myself.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

Ginny leaves shortly after.

🌻🌻🌻

The feedback for her first draft comes back and it’s glowing, but when she sits down to edit she just can’t do it. She tries to force herself, but finds herself staring at the same page until she snaps and brings out her book binding equipment. 

She fixes up just about every book in the house by the time the week ends.

She starts spending more time with other people - Harry is very busy, of course, but Ron is happy to hang out and Ginny, Luna and Hannah like taking her to all sorts of places while unsubtly avoiding certain topics for Hannah’s part, clearly restraining herself from talking about said topics for Ginny’s part and blithely mentioning the same topics passing as if they’re nothing for Luna’s.

Hermione knows she’s being ridiculous, she really does know it, but she just can’t think about it. Every time she’s reminded she feels such a strong embarrassment and shame.

Why did she have to go and ruin such a great thing like that?

🌻🌻🌻

When she finally does start thinking about what happened, about The Incident, it’s been almost three weeks and is shortly followed by Ginny apparating into her sitting room and saying, “Alright, Mione, we’re talking about it _now_.”

“It hasn’t been three weeks yet,” is what Hermione very smartly replies.

“It’s been close enough. It’s time you stop ignoring it and actually get to thinking about it and processing it. Maybe even go back to see Parkinson, I don’t know!” She throws out her hands dramatically and Hermione rises to her feet to pull her into a seat.

“Honestly, I might have started to consider thinking about, er, The Incident, I suppose,” she says and Ginny relaxes with a sigh.

“And?”

“I don’t know, you kind of interrupted me.”

Ginny’s cheeks tinge pink. “Right, sorry. Should’ve knocked or something, probably.”

“No, it’s alright.”

There’s a pause.

“So...” Ginny says.

“Did you think this through at all?” Hermione asks.

“Er, no.”

There’s another pause.

“So what are you going to do about Parkinson?” Ginny asks.

Hermione sighs. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Hermione.”

“Yes?”

“I _will_ apparate you up to the Hogwarts gates.”

Hermione sighs again and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I hardly see how that would be necessary.”

“You’re being stupid is why that would be necessary.”

“I’m _not_ -” she cuts herself off with a sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s just that this is _complicated_.”

“Is it?” 

“ _Yes._ ”

“Listen, Hermione,” Ginny says, “just go up to Parkinson and apologize, she’s gonna forgive you, I’m telling you. I saw that look she had on her face after you ran away and Luna says that Parkinson’s-”

“Is Luna talking to Parkinson or is this information she’s gotten from her little creatures?”

“She visited Neville the other day and saw Parkinson. So, as reported by Luna, Parkinson doesn’t hate you or anything like that and she’s giving you space since you seem a bit worked up about all of this.”

Hermione almost wishes Parkinson would just burst into her house so she would be forced to get it over with instead of having to go and do it on her own, but she _does_ feel better knowing that Luna had talked to Parkinson. Of course, there’s still that small, obnoxious part of her clinging on to the idea that Parkinson hates her - that she’s disgusted by the kiss and never wants to see Hermione again.

“ _C’mon_ , Hermione,” Ginny says. “Please, just go talk to Parkinson. You’ll feel better.”

Hermione sighs resignedly. “I suppose. I’ll, um, owl her and ask her to meet me for lunch tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan!” Ginny says with a grin. “Let’s get to writing that letter, then. I’ll stop bugging you about it once I’ve seen you send it.”

Hermione sighs again and begins looking for parchment.

She finds some stray parchment in her desk, sits down and proceeds to worry about how she should start the letter. Would ‘dear’ be too friendly? It would be rude to just start it with ‘Parkinson,’ wouldn’t it? Surely she can’t use something like ‘hey there,’ that just isn’t the sort of the relationship they have.

“Merlin’s tits, just say ‘dear Parkinson,’” Ginny bursts out after several minutes of Hermione tapping her quill against her inkwell.

She flushes and starts writing.

_Dear Parkinson,_

_I would like to apologize for my actions at the Annual Charity Ball. I would be ever so grateful for the chance to explain myself in person. If you want, please meet me at the Cauldron and Kettle for lunch. Any day, I’ll be going there every day until you show up or tell me to stop. I really want to apologize, but I understand if you don’t want to hear it._

~~_Love_ ~~ _Sincerely,_

_Hermione Granger_

“You’re being a bit... overly worried, but it certainly gets a point across,” Ginny says.

“I want her to know I’m sorry,” Hermione says, anxiously worrying at one of the corners of the parchment.

“Well, she’ll definitely get that from the letter. I say go ahead and send it, it’s better than nothing.”

“That’s not very comforting about whether it’s a good letter or not.”

“Hermione, it’s a fine letter. You don’t need to spill your heart out in it, you just need to let her know that you want to talk, which you have. Now send it.”

“If you’re sure-”

“I’m positive that you should send it.”

Hermione sighs and sends off the letter.

🌻🌻🌻

Hermione waits anxiously at the Cauldron and Kettle the next day. She’s brought a book in the hopes of distracting herself, but it isn’t working. She can’t focus. She so she just stares at the pages, looking at the words which make no sense. The letters seem to thrum with life, but maybe she’s just shaking from the anxiety.

Everytime the bell jangles, she looks up at the door to see who’s entering. She’s disappointed several times, countless times, until it’s unreasonably late for a lunch meeting. 

Hermione stands and leaves. She begins walking back to her house, profoundly sad.

“Granger.”

She turns around and sees her. Pansy Parkinson, looking just as Hermione remembers her - tall, black hair cut in a short, sharp bob, dark wine red blouse with lace around the cuffs, a short black skirt, tights, boots. She’s breathtakingly gorgeous and Hermione has to gently shake her head. 

She has to clear her mind.

Parkinson smiles gently.

Hermione is fucked.

“Parkinson.”

“Can we talk?” Parkinson asks. Hermione nods. “Your place?” Hermione nods again.

They walk in silence. They enter Hermione’s house in silence. They sit on the couch in silence. 

They sit and simmer in the silence.

And then-

“I’m sorry,” Hermione says, the words just tumbling out of her mouth. “I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have k-”

“Granger,” Parkinson interrupts her. She laces her fingers through Hermione’s. “Can I kiss you?”

Hermione can feel her face heating and her eyes go wide. She nods and, in unison, they lean in and their lips crash together.

It’s amazing, the best thing that’s ever happened to Hermione, she thinks. It’s also confusing - somehow tender and gentle while also being rough and rushed. Parkinson has one hand knotted in Hermione’s hair, the other hand lets go of Hermione’s hand and seems to float about awkwardly, uncertaintly, but eventually settles back in Hermione’s hand.

Hermione’s free hand is on Parkinson’s back, holding her close.

It’s sloppy, unlike anything Hermione’s ever experienced and when they pull apart, they’re both flushed and breathing heavily. Parkinson’s dark eyes are shining and she has this beautifully goofy smile on her face that’s so different from her usual expression.

“I have another question for you,” Parkinson says a few moments later.

Hermione turns her head marginally to the side and says, “What is it?”

“Would - I mean - _Merlin_ , this is so juvenile - Will you be my girlfriend?”

Hermione smiles, takes one of Parkinson’s hands with both of hers and says, “Of course.”

They kiss again, this time it’s much more gentle. It’s softer, slower, more deliberate and when they separate they’re still grinning at each other.

“I suppose we had better start calling each other by our first names,” Hermione says, almost laughing. It’s so utterly bizarre and stupid that they’ve continued to call each other by their surnames.

Parkinson - Pansy - _does_ laugh, it’s a soft laugh that makes Hermione adore her just a bit more. “Yeah, I suppose we better had.”

“Sounds like a plan, Pansy.”

“It absolutely does, Hermione.”

They lean in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, yeehaw it's the end! im planning on writing a sequel, so theres some unresolved plot points (pansy's tattoos, pansy not knowing that hermione is an author). i have no idea when ill be done with it as im still in the planning stages for it but its gonna happen!
> 
> and heres the symbolism of the flowers i picked for each chapter name:
> 
> Violets: i literally only picked it because its the Lesbian Flower  
> Azaleas: taking care of yourself  
> Begonias: communication and gratitude  
> Daffodils: return my affection  
> Plumerias: new beginnings  
> Peonies: get well soon flowers  
> Lilacs: first emotions of love  
> Moonflowers: dreaming of love  
> Sunflowers: pure thoughts, adoration  
> Viscarias: invitation to dance  
> Pansies: lover’s thoughts, adoration


End file.
